


Knowing Exactly What You Are Is Not for the Faint of Heart

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angel Hannibal Lecter, Angel Wings, Biting, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Body Modification, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Devil Will Graham, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grooming, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lies, M/M, Manipulation, Murder Husbands, Oil Gland Kink, Pre-Apocalypse, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smoking, Top Will Graham, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will Graham thinks he's the Devil, and he's probably right. He thinks Hannibal is an angel, and he's probably right about that too. A story of free will and what happens when a Devil and angel form an alliance against all odds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you all know me - it'll become explicit eventually and will be one helluva ride. pun intended.

Hannibal has just settled down to bed, a book propped up against his bent knees, the hour ticking past the hour of eleven to midnight, when he becomes aware of a second presence. It is not in the room, but his home shifts like a man loosening his belt after a large meal, expanding to accommodate the second creature within it.

His lips purse, and he shuts his book, and rises from bed. As he approaches the stairs, soft music swells up from the floor below. He recognizes it as 'The Invisible City of Kitezh Suite' – a long piece, full of languid melodies interspersed with dynamic slides between suspense and vibrancy. The flute has just begun her song as he pads down to the stairs, and approaches his study, through which he can see a sliver of orange flames, soft and welcoming, and the first wisp of cigar smoke.

He opens the door, eyes alighting on the familiar shape of a man, leaning over the fire and staring into it, one arm braced at the edge of the mantle. The hand attached to that arm holds a glass of whiskey, four fingers deep. Though the room is hazy with smoke, Hannibal sees no cigar or cigarette around.

He breathes in, the muscles beneath his shoulder blades tightening around his spine as he shivers. The man turns, and fixes Hannibal with a wide, warm smile, showing neat, white teeth, his face covered by a thin beard and framed in thick, dark curls. His beauty rivals that of the prettiest art in Rome.

Of course, that's by design – the Devil is always beautiful.

Hannibal returns his smile, and goes to the little tray beside the window, where he keeps port and brandy, always ready. He pours himself a drink as the man prowls away from the fire, and takes a seat in one of Hannibal's high-backed, thickly-padded chairs. He sits with his knees spread, fingers wide-splayed along the armrests, and lifts the whiskey to his mouth.

He doesn't drink; merely rests his lips against the rim, breathing it in, his eyes sharp on Hannibal's face as Hannibal replaces the cap on the brandy bottle and joins him, sitting opposite, the fire casting half of each of their faces into shadow.

They sit, for a moment, merely watching each other. Eons, the vast void of space, stretches between them, coalesces, tightens and tenses and waits to lunge.

Hannibal smiles, and takes a drink. The burn of the brandy coats his tongue like wax, so he can withstand the fire. "Our appointment isn't until tomorrow night, Will."

For that, he receives a tilt to Will's smile, sliding up and down like the inevitable fall. "I thought your home was always open to friends," he says, and Hannibal concedes to that with a demure nod. Will drinks, and lets his glass rest against the chair. He has no ice in his glass, which is new – usually Will aches for anything cold.

"I thought your kind weren't allowed to peer into the future," he replies. His voice is soft, like the whisper of air through catacombs, and yet Hannibal feels warm. His shoulders tense again, his fingers flex. He sighs into his glass.

"My kind," he repeats, and shakes his head with a smile.

Will laughs, and tips his head back, blowing out his breath to the ceiling. Hannibal's house groans again, stuffed too full, with two powerful beings inside it. There's no room for it to stretch, here, but Hannibal can feel the ache in the rafters and floorboards, the way the walls buckle out and the roof rises like it's taking a breath.

Hannibal closes his eyes as, for a moment, the music swells, and then grows quiet again.

"Jack Crawford thinks you can help me," Will says, and Hannibal opens his eyes again and fixes them on Will. His brows rise. "He thinks I'm crawling too deep into the darkness, and you can pull me out towards the light."

They share a smile.

"Are you still under the delusion that you are the Devil incarnate?" Hannibal asks, cradling his glass with both hands, and crossing one leg over the other. His bare foot tilts up, toes curling in the heat of the fire as it crackles and pops between them.

Will presses his lips together, and his eyes follow the line of Hannibal's leg, to the fire. He watches it, his eyes darkening, pupils flaring wide despite the relative brightness. He doesn't like it that Hannibal calls his disorder a 'delusion'.

"You don't believe me," he says.

"I believe that you believe you are," Hannibal replies kindly. Will merely nods. "Though I must ask, if that is the case, why are you here? Why do you not go back down to your kingdom, but instead integrate yourself with the souls you will one day torture for eternity?"

"Maybe I like watching the pre-party," Will says, and looks to him again. He smiles, in a way that sets deep dimples into his cheeks. "Surely you can sympathize with the desire to watch the cows when they're happy in the field, before they're led to the slaughter."

"And yet here you are, picking out the diseased members of the herd," Hannibal murmurs. Will huffs, and takes another drink, showing the long line of his neck. Hannibal swallows, and looks down at his glass. "Do you look at it as some kind of atonement?"

Will laughs, and rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. "No."

"What, then?"

"Let's call it…marinating the meat for the roast."

Hannibal eyes him, for long enough that Will's smile fades, and he sighs again.

"I can't go home."

Hannibal tilts his head, and Will winces into his next drink. He finishes it, and Hannibal sets his drink to one side, standing and taking the glass from Will, and goes to the tray to refill it. Once he learned Will's poison of choice, he always made sure it was well-stocked.

He pauses, when he hears Will stand, and Will approaches him. He flattens his hands around Hannibal's shoulder blades with a quiet sigh, saddle of his thumbs cupping the bone. The muscles beneath his fingers twitch, and flex.

"Will you show me your wings?" Will breathes, warm and whiskey-laced.

Hannibal sighs, and caps the bottle, turning and pressing the refilled glass into Will's hands. "I'm not an angel, Will," he says. Will's eyes flash with something dark, impatience and displeasure making his upper lip curl.

He takes his drink and swallows it all, setting it down forcefully on the tray. Hannibal's lips purse, and he moves past Will, retrieving his own. "You've started smoking again."

"Old habit," Will replies. "I miss the smog."

He sighs. "I want to help you, Will, but I can't if you continue to cling to this fantasy."

"It's not -." Will brings himself up short, huffing in aggravation. Hannibal finishes his drink, and returns to the tray, setting his empty glass beside Will's. They stand facing each other, much closer now, and Will's fingers curl, his eyes rake down to Hannibal's chest, to his feet, then back up. His brow furrows, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Hannibal coaxes.

Will swallows, and looks away. "I've never seen a soul like yours," he breathes. Hannibal blinks, tilting his head. "Everyone sins. Everyone – it's pretty impossible not to, nowadays. And I can read people, can look at them and see exactly what makes them tick, what I could do or promise them to get them to do exactly what I want."

Hannibal knows this, or at least the broad strokes – it's why he was tasked with monitoring Will's psychology and mindset, while he works for Agent Crawford.

"But I can't tell what you want," Will finishes, and shakes his head. "I look at you and I see nothing."

Hannibal smiles. "Perhaps I have the soul of a man perfectly content with his lot in life."

Will's upper lip twitches.

"I wish I knew what that was like."

"What you crave is connection," Hannibal says, and turns away to retake his seat. Will follows, as if strung along on a leash, and returns to his chair. He sits more primly, now, knees together, back straight. He rubs over his neck and sits forward, elbows to his knees. "I imagine being the Devil and seeing everyone as cattle can become very lonely."

Will's eyes darken, and sharpen, sliding to the fire. "I miss my brothers and sisters," he says. Hannibal presses his lips together – Will is an only child, he read that in Will's file, but he knows when Will mentions siblings, he is not speaking in the conventional sense. "I even miss my Father, though our relationship is…rocky, at best." His laugh, this time, is short and bitter.

Hannibal gives him a kind smile. "It's a trick of nature to love one's parents, even if it feels like obligation more than anything else." Will huffs, and rubs his hands together, fingers sliding from his wrists to his palms. "Believers say that when one wants to talk to God, you need merely call for Him, and He will answer."

Will grins. "They."

Hannibal tilts his head.

"God prefers to go by 'They', nowadays," Will says, and sits back, gesturing vaguely to the ceiling. "They're a sucker for umbrella terms."

Hannibal smiles. "They, then," he corrects. Who is he to question God's preferred pronouns? Will lifts his eyes, sighing, and closes them, tilting his head back to rest against the chair. He looks exhausted, and Hannibal imagines he hasn't been sleeping well at all. He would think the Devil sleeps like a baby, given the state of the world.

Will doesn't reply, and so Hannibal brushes his hands down his thighs, and pushes himself to his feet. "It's late," he says gently, and Will opens his eyes, blinks at the clock. He flushes, and nods, standing as well. "You are more than welcome to stay in the guest room tonight."

"I'm fine to drive," Will replies. Hannibal's brows lift, for he just now witnessed Will drink a lot of whiskey, but he seems alert, and he's a stubborn and willful man. He would protest, but his house feels close to bursting from Will's presence, and needs to exhale.

He walks Will to the door, and settles a hand between his shoulder blades, feels Will tense and shiver and subtly arch into his touch like a needy cat. "Please text me when you're home safe," he says, firm enough that he knows he will be obeyed. Will nods, biting his lower lip, and shrugs on his coat when Hannibal hands it to him. "I'll see you this evening."

Will smiles at him, and nods, and Hannibal watches him go to his car, get in, and drive away, before he shuts and locks the door. Not that locking his door has ever stopped Will entering when he pleases.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and returns to the study to fetch and wash their glasses. With a wave of his hand, the fire flickers and dies, though he keeps the music on as he enters the kitchen. His home creaks in relief, settling, and in the empty space left by Will's presence, Hannibal sighs, and relaxes.

His wings have certainly seen better days – they're almost grey, lackluster and losing their natural shine, and ache from lack of use. He shakes them out as he washes the dishes, letting them hang at a comfortable position so the longest feathers barely touch the floor.

By the time the dishes are done, Hannibal's home has settled back to its normal state, panting from strain, and it becomes uncomfortable to keep his wings unfurled. He rolls his shoulders, letting them settle out of sight again, and sighs. He turns off the music and returns to bed.

 

 

The house of God is not a grand temple, not an awe-inspiring Cathedral. It is also not a hovel, or a slum, or a cave in the middle of a mountain.

It is, rather, a little white house in the middle of an open field. God does not currently reside there – They are very busy with matters in Heaven, and only come down occasionally to check the mail and read the paper. Right now, it's being leased by the Devil.

Will Graham sits on his porch, his feet propped up against the railing, one hand idly petting through the thick, shaggy scruff of Winston, his latest stray. Winston is a normal dog – Will's current pack on Earth only has one Hellhound and she's not allowed on hallowed ground, so she stays out in the forest most nights – but he's a smart, calm creature. He only cares about things like a good meal and a warm hearth and the occasional kind hand and word of praise.

Will tilts his head back, sighing, and closes his eyes. He blows a smoke ring to the sky, and opens his eyes to watch it dissipate in the light breeze.

Whoever owned this house before him – God isn't picky about Their tenants – had a cross carved into one of the beams on the porch, so that nothing could enter the house without passing beneath it. This is the only place where literal demons can't bother Will, which just leaves him with the ones in his head.

He eyes the cross, and imagines Jesus strung up on it. "You had it easy, hot-shot," he mutters, and takes another drag from his cigarette.

At least God's only begotten son had a purpose in life. He was born knowing exactly what he had to do, who he had to meet and what he had to say, even if it ended in his rather theatrical death. Kind of over the top, in Will's opinion, and that's saying something.

Will doesn't know his purpose. He can't even remember a time when he thought he _had_ a direction in life. This time around, he became too human, and it turns out humans are very fragile, and very breakable, and maybe it's his own damn fault because he spends most of his days tired and trying to get drunk.

Then, Jack Crawford strolled into his lecture hall, and it all went downhill from there. Strange; Will imagined the lowest circle of Hell was rock bottom, but apparently there are new kinds of misery humans have invented that Hell couldn't even dream of.

Jack reminds Will of someone. Someone he doesn't quite remember, but likes to think he was close to, back in the old days. He pretends to be Will's father, he doesn't want to be Will's friend, but he's a solid kind of man, the kind of man made of stone and steel, who does not break and does not falter. Will envies him that kind of conviction – envies more than it's not born of faith, but righteous justice.

And then came Hannibal. Will has yet to meet another angel on Earth, though to call himself still an angel doesn't sound quite right anymore. He doesn't know why Hannibal is lying to him, but he must be – he must be something. He's not a normal man, he can't possibly be, with a soul like that. Will looks at him and sees nothing but flat, sleek metal, like the surface of a mirror; something shiny and reflective and ultimately hiding what prowls beneath.

He ignores the thought, buries it in another drag of a cigarette, that maybe he's lost so much of his original self that he's wrong, and he's just projecting.

No, Hannibal is something. Angel, demon, God Themself, Will doesn't know.

He sighs, and stubs the cigarette out, wincing at the lingering taste in his mouth. He straightens, and rolls his shoulders, reaching behind himself to knead at the sore and tense muscle. Strange, how he can feel like his wings are still there, years after they were ripped from his back.

Winston's ears perk up, and he lets out a low whine, and Will looks out to see the red eyes of his Hellhound gazing back at them. She's perched by the mailbox, over-large jaws parted, dripping black saliva. She barks, a deep, rumbling sound, when Will looks at her.

Will smiles, and pats Winston's head, bidding him go back inside. He rises, and walks to the mailbox, opening it and taking it out. His Hellhound barks again, and rises, trotting away into the darkness. The letters are a mix of things – bills, spam, human correspondence he pays little attention to. But there is a single card, bordered with gold, that catches his eye.

 _Elliot Buddish_ , it reads, in a font like a typewriter.

Will frowns, and checks the back of the card, but there's nothing else on it. A moment later, the card begins to smoke, and curl as flames lick at the corners. He huffs, and drops it, stamping it out with his bare foot as the card crinkles and becomes ash.

He lifts his eyes skyward. It's a cloudless night, and the stars wink at him. "Thanks for the heads up," he mutters, and tucks the rest of the mail beneath his arm. He whistles for Buster, who is still out and about, the only dog who has a big enough Napoleon complex not to show fear around his Hellhound. Buster yips at him, and runs inside, and Will sighs, and closes the door.

 

 

The silence stretches on, long, longer still, as Hannibal simply sits, considering his glass of wine. This house is not as old as his; much more limber and spry, and easily accommodates his presence with the healthy metabolism of a teenager. It feeds on him, makes his shoulders feel loose and relaxed, his head light.

Across from him, Bedelia tilts her head, her hair falling in artful golden waves down one side of her neck. She fixes him with a placid smile, but her eyes are sharp and dark. "You're not normally this quiet," she says.

Hannibal nods in agreement, and sips his wine.

"I have a lot on my mind," he concedes.

"Well, that's what this hour is for. We can talk about whatever you wish to talk about."

Hannibal nods again, and lifts his eyes to the drawn curtains behind her shoulder. They are a light blue, embroidered with white and gold, and they are drawn back, leaving only thin white drapes that allow a little relief from the sunlight.

"I feel…something," he says. "A change in the air, gathering like storm clouds. I think Will feels it too."

Her eyes flash at the mention of Will, and though she schools her expression, Hannibal knows she is both intrigued and weary of how much he becomes their topic of conversation. "Will is the patient of yours that thinks he's the Devil?" she asks, like she doesn't already know. Still, Hannibal nods, and she smiles at him, genteel and flat as a statue. "Your attention to him has only grown more intense since you first started working with him."

"I see myself in Will," Hannibal admits. They are more alike than she could possibly fathom. "A…madness. I want to contain it, like an oil spill."

"Oil is valuable," she says, straightening in her seat. "What value does Will Graham's madness hold for you?"

"The opportunity to sate my curiosity, I suppose," he replies. "He told me he can read the souls of people, but cannot read mine. That I am hidden from him."

She tilts her head again. "Was this during a session?" she asks, prepared to scold him for breaching doctor-patient confidentiality, Hannibal is sure.

He smiles, and sips his wine. "No. Will visited my home last night."

She hums, at that, and lifts her chin. "I'm surprised," she says, and Hannibal meets her eyes. "You don't often tolerate mice scurrying around you." She pauses, and adds; "Getting underfoot."

"I think he is more like me than even he knows," Hannibal murmurs. "But it's delicate."

"Delicate," she repeats. "Does it bother you, that Will is going around claiming your title?"

Hannibal laughs. "Do you think I am the Devil, Bedelia?" he asks, teasing and light. But the look on her face tells him she does – or perhaps not the Devil himself, but something monstrous all the same. "I don't think the true Devil would care if someone else was doing his work any more than Santa resents jolly men dressing up at the mall."

"There's something to be said for reputation," Bedelia replies coolly. "Will works for the FBI, yes?" He nods. "The Devil doesn't seem the kind of creature prone to catching criminals. Helping innocents."

"I asked him the same thing. He said he liked watching the pre-party." She hums.

"Regardless of what he thinks he is, or what you are, I would advise not to let yourself be consumed with your…curiosity." Hannibal blinks at her. "If your instinct with Will Graham is to take a step forward, I advise you to take a step back. For his sake, and yours."

"Oh?"

She smiles. "If he is the Devil, Hannibal, then it doesn't end well for you, no matter how deep your friendship goes – Evil cannot be befriended. If he isn't, then he is just a very sick man, and you would do well not to get too…attached, to someone with such a disorganized psyche." Hannibal doesn't answer, merely takes another drink.

"You speak as if it's already too late," he says, more lightly than he feels. She merely smiles.

They do not speak further on Will Graham, and when Hannibal leaves, her house exhales behind him, with the contented belly-pat of the recently well-fed.


	2. Chapter 2

Contrary to popular belief, the Devil isn't inherently evil, nor does he go out of his way to tempt people into committing sin, any more than the garbageman encourages ordinary folk to make more trash. People are more than capable of being evil on their own, and their souls horde their sin like teenagers with dirty magazines, letting it fester and rot them from the inside until, inevitably, it's their own guilt that pulls them down. Hell is filled with more guilty people who aren't inherently bad, and most of Heaven's quota is people who think they deserve a little peace in the afterlife.

People go, as one wise man wrote, where they believe they should be. It's neater, overall, in the grand scheme of things, and God detests paperwork.

Hell has demons, minions, and all things evil and grotesque. There are places Will himself hasn't even seen, because he has no desire to – places where sulfurous fumes clog the throat and the walls melt like flesh in a fire. Places where rabid dogs chew on the unmentionables as they grow back rapid-pace, places where the screams are so loud and discordant, he can barely hear himself think.

Even if he could go home, he wouldn't visit there.

He's used to getting messages from God in his mailbox, though they are scarcely ever more than names. Sometimes there are locations, but God is rarely that helpful. Divine intervention isn't like having a giant hand reach down and pluck you from danger, claw-grab style. God helps those, as people say, who help themselves.

Will's house might be the only one in existence that doesn't creak and groan when he enters it. There's a reason why Cathedrals are so large, when appearances from the Heavenly Host were more commonplace.

This hotel, when he enters, shivers like it's being force-fed something it doesn't like. The air conditioning kicks in, wafting the scent of old blood and cold flesh towards him as he spies Jack, and gives him a nod. Jack's face is dark and somber, lines etched into him the rival of any carving, and he thanks the superintendent he's speaking with, and moves away, pulling out his little notebook and flipping to the first page as he approaches Will.

"Two dead," he says. Will nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, rolling his shoulders. The walls of the hotel foyer tremble and arch away from him as if trying to give him room; a school of fish parting for the passage of a shark.

He wrinkles his nose at the pervasive smell of death, and lifts a hand to correct his glasses higher up on his face. One of God's gifts to him, and the first he ever received in his mailbox – when wearing them, the flashes of color staining a person's soul are muted, and less distracting. They provide him distance, and allow him to interact with people as normally as he's able.

"Found this morning?" he asks, as Jack leads him through the lobby, out the front door and down the little walkway, shaded, leading to the room. It's a motel with doors that lead right onto the street, and one room's door is open, a flock of forensic investigators and crime scene techs around it, corralled by yellow tape that separates them from the wild herd of reporters and rubbernecking civilians trying to peer their way inside.

Jack nods, and they shoulder their way under the tape. He pauses outside the door. "Found by housekeeping. Time of death puts it around ten last night."

Will nods, and they go inside.

He freezes.

The bed hasn't been made, of course. The room is fairly large, turning a corner and revealing the bed, and an open door through which Will can hear the bathroom fan humming. He sees familiar faces all around – Beverly with her camera, taking photos of the nightstand. Jimmy and Brian are gathered around one of the corpses.

It's a man and a woman, knelt in a facsimile of prayer, their hands bound, with lines pulling huge swatches of detached skin from their backs. Their spines are exposed, and the backs of their ribs, their wings held up by wire and hooks. There are huge bloodstains around each of the couple, telling him they were likely still alive when they were skinned.

His stomach clenches, and he presses his lips together.

"Ring a bell," he mutters. "An angel got its wings."

Jack's gaze on him is sharp, heavy with a disapproval only the kind of man who would have made a terrible father can have. He purses his lips and lets out a grunt. "They were residents of the hotel, using fake names. This is their room."

Will nods, and steps forward, reaching out as Jimmy hands him a pair of latex gloves. He slides them on, and tilts his head, going to the man first. His eyes are closed, and his expression is almost serene, lax in death. His hands, and that of the woman, are bound together to mimic the praying stance. His stomach clenches again.

"Our guy's a believer," Brian says. "He's got angels watching over him."

Will looks to the bed. "I need a sheet," he murmurs, and waits until it's brought, and laid out on the bed. He climbs on and lies down on his back, staring up at the ceiling, first, and then tilts his head forward so he can see the couple.

He takes off his glasses, and holds them to his chest, wincing when the room, for a moment, floods with the light of so many souls inside. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again, makes himself look.

Once a body is dead, it's a void to him. Colorless. Not like Hannibal's, not a mirror through which anything might be reflected, and not black like that of a child who has yet to experience sin. It is complete absence, just flesh and hair and skin. It is the thing that most unsettles him when looking at a body.

He blinks, and wipes away the wire and hooks. Cleans the blood, in his mind. Returns their wings to their backs and lets them fade away. Makes them gain color, and awareness. He tilts his head.

"He skinned them alive," he says.

"Looks like," Jimmy confirms with a nod. "And he didn't do it very precisely, either – the cut marks here are jagged."

"He was in a hurry," Will murmurs. Yes, that is true – there is an urgency in this place, within the quivering walls. "He's running out of time."

He breathes in, and smells something sour, and frowns towards the bedside table. He sees an old stain, a puddling slop of grime that Beverly is taking a photo of. "What's there?"

"Vomit, looks like," she replies, and looks like she's trying to breathe through her mouth. She meets his eyes. "Guilt over what he did?"

"Or sick."

"Definitely sick," Jimmy mutters.

"I mean physically. Running out of time, and making angels to sing him to his rest." Will rubs a hand over his face, and winces, pulling the latex gloves off and pushing himself from the bed, suddenly unable to stomach lying there where the killer did. He eyes the bindings on the victims again, notes the way they have cut deep into their wrists, like he pulled them too tight. "This kill was haphazard. I think it's his first."

Jack hums.

"It's ambitious, taking down two healthy people for your first time," Will adds. "Means he felt like he had to."

"Why them?" Beverly asks. "You're right – two healthy people, physically fit. Unless he's a really big guy, he wouldn't be able to subdue and skin them both. The man has a few defensive wounds but nothing consistent with an all-out fight."

"He could have caught the woman, made the man tie her up, threatened her with bodily harm if he didn't obey. Then bind the man, string 'em up and do what he had to." Will swallows, and looks at the bed again. "Then slept like a baby."

The words are sharp, spat with distaste. It's clear Jack doesn't like the sound of them, either. He clears his throat and Will puts his glasses back on, wincing when the shades go over his eyes and mute the colors of the people inside the room with him.

"If he's sick, and it's terminal, he'll be on medications. I'll have the lab rush the vomit sample," Beverly says, and Will gives her a thin smile and nod of thanks, before he follows Jack back out of the room. The sunlight is bright today, slanting down on them and trying to blind, and he ducks his head and follows Jack into the shaded section of the 'kiss and ride' awning.

He presses his lips together, and pushes his hands back into his pockets again. "I have another name, if you're interested," he says. He tried, once, to tell Jack that he receives messages from God that would likely help him catch their killers. Jack listened for about three minutes, right before he ordered Will's psychological evaluation and monitoring.

"The Spidey sense from God?" Jack says, heavy with derision.

Will lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Take it or leave it."

"I'll leave it," Jack says sharply. "We'll catch 'em like we always do – with good detective work and facts. Not magical notes from the Almighty."

"Fine. Can I go, then?"

"Not so fast," Jack says, and Will halts in place, grinding his molars together. "How's your treatment going?"

"Confidentially, as it should be," Will replies.

Jack's brows rise, and he huffs. "He cleared you, seemed to think you were sane enough for Government work." Of course he did. God does not command his angels to interfere with the Devil's due. "But that isn't a pass to just do whatever you feel like. Try and keep your comments to a minimum."

Will bristles, and wishes that he hadn't lost his wings – that he could show Jack, prove, once and for all, that he's the real deal. Jack isn't going to go to Hell – he doesn't have enough guilt to keep him up at night. "He's making angels, Jack," he says, keeping his voice level. "Seems like my _comments_ have never been more suitable."

Jack eyes him, like he wants to scold Will but is reminding himself that Will is a grown man, and only there by the grace of God and whatever other strings tug at the universe. Jack asked to borrow his imagination and Will can take it back whenever he chooses; he made himself an asset on purpose, caught the killers no one could catch; he's good at what he does, _damn_ good at what he does, and he likes it when Jack looks like he's forcibly reminding himself of that fact.

"Well." Jack folds his notebook and tucks it back into his breast pocket.

Will looks back, over his shoulder, towards the yellow-taped door. "You were talking to the superintendent, but said housekeeping found the bodies," he says. "Why?"

"No sign of forced entry, wanted to know if it would be possible to mimic a key card or make it look like something not-forced. And the air conditioning unit was disabled in that room."

Will frowns. "Chills," he murmurs. "Vomiting. Whatever is making him sick, it might be physically weakening him." His head tilts. "There was no blood on the bed, which means he probably showered after he killed them, before he went to sleep. Maybe he has a compromised immune system."

"Once Beverly gets the vomit analyzed I'm sure we'll have better answers," Jack says sharply.

Will hums, and lifts his chin. "Well," he says carefully, and meets Jack's eyes. "You do have a doctor on your speed dial. And coincidentally, so do I."

Jack presses his lips together, but doesn't deny it, which is as good as permission in Will's book.

"I have another session with Hannibal tonight," he says, and straightens, taking a step back. "I'll ask him what he thinks."

"Alright," Jack replies, and looks up as a reporter starts calling for him. He sighs, and rubs a hand over his face, and Will would feel sympathetic over the wolves and their insatiable appetite, but he has no room in him for sympathy today.

He turns away and walks back towards his car, ignoring the sunlight, the crowd, and everything else. Inside his car is it blessedly silent. He takes out his pack of cigarettes, lights one, and waits until his car is filled with smoke and he has to roll the windows down to see, before he drives away.

 

 

Hannibal's office is also large enough that it does not immediately quake and groan when Will enters it. Though, he thinks, that is because it's grown quite used to being filled by Hannibal's presence – Will, in comparison, is like adding Jell-O to a full stomach. There's always room for Jell-O, as the saying goes.

He knocks on the door precisely at seven-thirty because Hannibal is a stickler for punctuality and Will likes making him smile. He's greeted with a familiar, welcoming nod, as Hannibal steps back and takes Will's coat, and allows him to toss his messenger bag onto the little couch before he takes his preferred seat, with his back to the door. Like this, all he sees is Hannibal, and his books, and his heavy curtains, all of it thrumming with power. He splays his hands wide on the thick armrests and settles with a sigh, wrinkling his nose so his glasses brush up higher on his face.

Hannibal gives him a warm smile, unbuttons his suit jacket, and sits opposite. He folds one leg over the other and Will sits back, slides to the very crease of the chair, spreads his knees wide. Their eyes meet, and Hannibal tilts his head.

Hannibal is usually the one to start the conversations, to break the silences, and today is no exception: "Jack called me this afternoon," he says, and Will nods, tilting his head back, blinking at the ceiling. He watches it flex and shift, the fine detail lining the corners of wall and ceiling gazing at him like a shy but attentive housecat. "He seems to think this latest case will, at some point, require a medical diagnosis."

Will nods. "Got a guy who's probably dying, desperately grasping for one last chance at salvation," he says, and rights his head, meeting Hannibal's eyes again. Adds, dark and spitting; "He's killing people and making them into angels to watch him sleep."

Hannibal's eyes flash with intrigue, his expression melting into something calm and curious. "You sound angry about that."

Is that what this emotion is? This restless, jittery, snarling thing that feels as though it has clawed a place for itself within Will's chest? Yes, perhaps it is. "Maybe," he concedes, and looks down at his hands, finds that his knuckles are white, and his nails are curled to plant lines into the leather. He smooths them out in apology.

"Why do you think that is?" Hannibal asks. It's almost as bad as 'How does that make you feel?'.

Will's upper lip curls, pulls back, and he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth. "Men pray for intercession," he says, "and then it's up to God to listen and answer. You can't just _make_ your own guardians."

Hannibal's lips purse subtly, and he drums his fingers along his thigh. Still, otherwise, he is the picture of ease. "Were these angels fully transformed by your killer?"

"They had wings," Will replies, and sighs, rubbing both hands over his face. "He didn't seem to care about any other accuracy." He grins, bitter, and meets Hannibal's eyes again, folds his fingers beneath his chin and pets his thumbs over the corners of his mouth. "No three heads and millions of eyes and all that."

Hannibal smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners for how wide it is. "A lack of imagination, perhaps," he says like he's trying not to laugh, and Will's mouth twitches in a smile. "Although it could imply only a basic, or recent, understanding of religion. Driven by desperation."

Will nods, lowering his hands so his elbows are on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He looks at them, watches them curl between each other and tighten.

"Somehow that feels even worse," he admits quietly. He'll be the first to say his relationship with God is complicated, his interactions with people even more so, but there are _rules_. "He's grasping at straws, trying to find something that'll, I don't know, guarantee him his trip into Heaven. But just the fact that he's doing it at all means he's one of mine."

His mouth twitches again, the smile not kind at all. "I'll put him in a room full of angels if that's what he wants."

Hannibal lets out a sharp sound, almost like a warning. "The Devil is not in the business of vengeance, Will, but justified punishment," he says, and Will's eyes lift, to find Hannibal's gaze dark. "If you want to torture, there are places to do that."

Will grimaces, and wipes his hands over his mouth. "You're right," he says, feeling chided.

Hannibal sighs through his nose, his demeanor wiped away like water from a window, and he uncrosses his legs, sets both feet on the floor, and sits forward, mimicking Will's position. The chairs are close, and they could reach out and clasp hands if either of them made the move to. Will's fingers twitch. He aches to feel Hannibal's wings beneath them.

With his glasses on, Hannibal looks the same as any man. He looks like a dead man. Will had hoped that if he wasn't wearing them, he would be able to see Hannibal's wings, see the unequivocal proof that he is what Will thinks he is. But he should have known better – angels only show their wings to people they mean to.

"God gave me a name," he says. Hannibal blinks, head tilting. "Will you help me find him?"

Hannibal hums, lips thinning, and he nods. "Yes," he murmurs. Will is almost surprised, but he shouldn't be. He has sensed, from the beginning, that there is very little Hannibal would not do for the sake of his own curiosity. "If," he adds, "you promise me that if we do find this man, and somehow receive evidence that he is tied to the case, you will behave as a man of the law, not as some agent of God acting on Their behalf."

Will grins. "I promise," he says, and Hannibal doesn't quite look convinced, but the smile he gives Will is more eager than anything else. He stands, though the hour is far from over – Hannibal never forces Will to stay for the whole session, nor does he remind Will of the time limit should it stretch too long. Even angels are tempted by power. "Meet me tomorrow? I'll gather what I can tonight."

"Very well," Hannibal says, and follows him to the door. He hands Will his coat and helps it back on, hands flattening over Will's shoulders, briefly, in the same way Will did to him last night. It makes Will ache, like pouring salt on an open wound. Hannibal is the only one who, when he touches Will, makes him feel the absence of his wings so sharply. "I'll bring breakfast."

Will turns, and smiles at him. "Sounds good," he says, and steps through the door as Hannibal opens it for him. "See you tomorrow, Doctor Lecter."

"Goodnight Will. Drive safe."


	3. Chapter 3

God's little white house in the middle of a field in Wolf Trap, Virginia, does not often receive visitors. The people who lived here before Will were a family, and the wife was a clairvoyant, undoubtedly able to sense the peace and serenity within this place. She was quick to sell to Will, however, when he first approached, and Will still remembers the way she had looked at him, shivering and pale, and how her hands would shake whenever she spoke to him.

It's a two bedroom, one and a half bath – a simple design much like the rest of the houses that were built when Sears blueprints were all the rage. Still, it is old, and gives the impression that it was here before man ever stepped foot upon the Earth, and will be here for long after.

Will does not sleep in the upper rooms, but he goes up there sometimes when he wants to think. He keeps the entire house spotless, regularly vacuuming dog hair and washing the walls until they shine. The outside of the house is weathered, but in such a way that wax adds a layer of protection to a car's paint job.

One of the bedrooms is filled with boxes, for lacking the usable space, he did not unpack everything given to him from his Earthly father. It sits, gathering dust, labelled things like 'Uniforms' and 'Tools' and 'Books'. One would not know they were there, if one did not look.

The second bedroom is empty, and it is that room into which Will goes, in the early hours of the morning. Dawn has not yet broken, the sun is still rolling in her bed and asking for five more minutes of sleep. The walls exhale as Will moves through the house, adjusting its belt lower to accommodate a growing stomach, pregnant with power.

He sits in the middle of the second, small, empty room. His eyes are on the wall, and in his mind gold sweeps across his vision, stripping the plaster from the ceilings, the paint from the walls, the wallpaper that lies beneath it for he was too lazy to redo it. He sits with his legs stretched out in front of him, his back rests so that there is pressure along the ache where his wings should be, and the sun, when she does rise, will blink at him and peer curiously through the open windows, warming his face.

He tilts his head up, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees bare bones, wooden struts and the padding of insulation. He sees the mouse nest, sees the mother with her young burrowed in a place where, on the outside, a woodpecker pecked a hole large enough for her to use. He smiles at her, watches the rapid rise and fall of her belly as her children suckle at her teats. He hears Winston, on the other side of the closed door, panting loudly but at rest, waiting for Will to emerge again.

He hears, beyond the house, the heavy footfalls of his hound as she makes her rounds along the perimeter, checking for any weakness in the wards and boundaries. If one should fall, she will raise up a scream, and call her brothers and sisters to her to guard it until Will can repair it.

In his lap, open to Revelations, is the old copy of the Bible that his Earthly father used to read to him at night. Some would say that this was the beginning of Will's 'delusion'. They would say of course, the Devil is the most powerful character in the book, who wouldn't want to be like him? They would be fools, for Will knew he was Other long before he heard the word of God.

He finds himself wondering, absently, if he would have refused the Devil's offering of land and power, standing on the cliffs of Gomorrah. If he would have denied him, and said 'Get behind me, foul fiend', when tempted in the desert as Jesus did.

Probably not. Will is too human to resist such things.

Revelations has always been his favorite book of the Bible. There's something very real, very raw, about the way Saint John depicted what he saw. How terrifying it must have been, to see the End of Days. How powerful John must have felt, to be the one bearing witness – and yet, cast aside as something unknowable and unbelievable. The first ever man who screamed about Y2K.

What most people do not seem to understand about the Bible is that it was told as a story, the same way literature has always tackled what Man cannot comprehend through metaphor and allegory. Revelation, though, Revelation is tangible, touchable. Everyone knows the power of fire and blood.

He looks at the wall.

"And then," he whispers, getting to his feet, and crosses the room, Bible discarded. He presses his hand through the wall, through the insulation, to the back of the siding outside. "The first of the seven seals was broken, and I heard a voice of thunder."

He drags his nails down, shivering. The mouse has woken up, and is staring at him with wide, black eyes. "'Come', he says, and I looked and saw a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer."

 _Pestilence_ , _Conquest_. Disease that ravages the heart and mind. Will thinks of Elliot Buddish, and mourns for his soul. "And when the second seal broke," he continues, "I heard the second creature say 'Come', and a red horse went out, and War sat upon him."

He thinks of Jack, fighting against Will at every turn. The righteous and the just man who will one day see all that God has done and will cower in fear. The war Elliot is fighting in his own head, between his fear of death and his desire for salvation.

"A great sword was given to him, and he was granted the power to take peace from the Earth, and that men would slay one another at his will."

Will's fingers curl, a tremor running up his arm and settling at the base of his neck. Dawn blinks at him, the sun yawning widely, and coloring the sky pink and blue outside. He looks to her, and smiles in greeting.

"And I looked," he says, and bows his head to the sun. "I looked and the third creature said 'Come'. I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. _Do not damage the oil and the wine_."

The balance, between Good and Evil, between Will and Hannibal and right and wrong. The Devil and God's angel, who have somehow become friends upon this Earthly plane. The scales are tipping, though in whose favor Will could not say.

The mouse whimpers in fear, and gathers her children close to her. Will drops his gaze, drops his hand, and steps back, running his shaking hands through his sweaty hair. "…And when the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice saying 'Come'."

Pain shoots up his arm, hard enough to stutter his heart, and he swallows. "I looked and saw a pale horse, and on him sat Death. Hades followed with him, and he was given authority over all, to kill with sword, and with famine, and with pestilence, and by the wild beasts of the Earth."

The mouse shrieks, and Winston barks from outside the door. Far away, Will hears his hellhound snarling.

He looks, and goes to the window, to see Hannibal's shiny black car pulling up to the house. He smiles, and dusts off his hands, looks to the mouse who is staring up at him with terrified eyes. "Be at peace," he tells her. "Death will not come for you here."

He opens the door, and Winston rises, tail wagging, and he licks the hand Will put through the wall, and follows Will down to the front door as Hannibal's car parks, and the engine dies. And so the angel arrives, with feast and fairness. Will aches to see Hannibal's wings, but all he sees is the man, dressed warmly to bat against the cold dawn air. His hound has gone quiet, and he shrugs on a bathrobe, pulling it tight around him, and goes to the little table by his front door, upon which sits the file of everything he had managed to pull on one Elliot Buddish.

Hannibal enters with ease, for Will does not lock his door, and Will's pack barrel out to go play and relieve themselves, leaving the cosmic beings alone save for the mouse in the wall and the ever-creak of his home. His house groans when Hannibal enters, breathes in deeply in preparation for the main course, and settles with a sigh as Hannibal takes off and hangs his coat, and smiles at Will.

"Good morning," he greets, and Will nods to him, watching as Hannibal shrugs the cooler from his shoulder and sets it on the table. From within he pulls out two glass containers, translucent with condensation so Will cannot see what's inside beyond a vaguely yellow color, and two forks which he has wrapped in napkins.

"You need the microwave?" Will offers. "Coffee's still brewing."

Hannibal hums, and shakes his head, settling with a sigh. "I'm alright, thank you – I believe it still kept most of the heat."

Will smiles, and gently touches both his and Hannibal's containers, sending a soft pulse of heat through each of them. He stands, and fetches water for both of them, returning to his seat after he has placed Hannibal's glass in front of him.

He uncaps the container, smiling at the sight of what looks like an egg and sausage scramble, peppered with red chili flakes, green bell pepper pieces, and chunks of white onion. He takes a bite and gives a little sound of satisfaction – he knows this sausage did not come from any animal God told Adam was fit to eat. He's not stupid, after all. But Hannibal is a good cook and who is Will to judge an angels does to people he deems fit to slaughter.

The thought of Hannibal hunting, dealing out God's vengeance on the deserving, often keeps him warm at night when his own fire will not.

Hannibal smiles, visibly pleased at Will's positive reaction, and takes a drink of water. His dark eyes fall to the file, and he nods to it. "Is this our man?" he asks.

Will nods, and gestures for him to take a look as he eats. He is quite hungry, as often he forgets that his human vessel needs nourishment as much as anyone, and Hannibal's food is always delicious. Hannibal lets out another quiet noise, flipping a page. "Did this name come to you in a vision?" he asks.

Will shakes his head. "God left me the name in my mailbox," he replies, and Hannibal's eyes lift, his brows rising. "They do that a lot."

"Am I correct in assuming, however, that this name came to you before you were officially involved with the case?"

Will nods. "Part of me likes to think that God's not too happy with what he's doing either, in the same way I'm not."

"Ah, yes, making angels," Hannibal says, his lips twitching in a fond smile. "Well it seems like this Mister Buddish has certainly had an unfortunate last few months. Estranged from his wife and children, undergoing chemotherapy…" His head tilts, and he frowns. "How did you get this information?"

"I have friends," Will replies with a smile.

"Of course," Hannibal concedes, nodding again. He closes the file and sighs through his nose, setting it down as he, too, begins to eat.

Will tilts his head, finishing his meal, and he closes the container with the fork inside, places it in Hannibal's cooling bag, and drinks water to wash it down. "I think I figured out what angel you are," he says. Hannibal's head tilts, and he straightens in reaction. "Raguel – the archangel of justice, the sixth of the seven watchers who are meant to take vengeance on transgressors of God's laws." Hannibal's brows rise again, and Will smiles. "Also the angel of fairness, harmony, redemption, and speech, depending on who you ask. I think it fits you pretty well."

"Surely those titles would better benefit someone in the justice system, or a politician," Hannibal replies coolly.

Will snorts. "Show me a fair and just politician and I'll sprout my wings all over again."

Hannibal laughs, and takes another bite of his meal. "Do you like the idea of knowing the angel of redemption, Will?" he asks.

Will swallows, and looks away. "I guess Buddish and I are both guilty of trying to stack the deck," he murmurs.

"You are not a killer," Hannibal says gently, setting his fork down. His gaze is earnest, though still very dark. "You may step into their minds and reside in their thoughts from time to time, but you are not them. I would consider it a great favor to me if you would try to remember that."

"The Devil doesn't kill," Will says. "Just takes out the trash."

"Cleans house for the party," Hannibal adds, reminding Will of his words the night before last, where he'd claimed he liked watching the show before the real 'fun' begins. Will shivers, shoulders rolling. Hannibal notices, and his eyes slide to the mattress on the floor where Will normally sleeps.

"I do like the idea," Will confesses, for it's easy to confess things to Hannibal, to be drawn in by his calm demeanor and unshakable presence. He is a rock, a paddle to a little lifeboat tossed on stormy seas, both capable of being its salvation and its demise. Hannibal's head tilts. "Of you being a creature of justice, and redemption, even if it's not for me." He huffs a strained laugh, and says into his next drink; "It at least makes me feel better about the future of your patients."

Hannibal smiles.

"It's all about balance, isn't it?" Will says, and looks out the window again, past his dogs who are all playing with each other, wrestling and chasing and tugging on the rope toy Will didn't take inside last night. Further, to the mailbox, and then still farther out, where the trees begin and he can see the huge, black loping form of his hound, with her red eyes and gaping maw. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Just as you heal, you can also destroy."

"Do you think I am here to heal you, Will, or to destroy you?"

Will shrugs, and winces again, his shoulders sore. He sits forward and pulls one arm across his chest until his right shoulder pops, and then rubs at the back of his neck with his tingling hand. "Would God not have sent Gabriel, if They meant to get rid of me? Or Michael, even."

Hannibal smiles. "Adding insult to injury seems like something God does often," he replies. He finishes with his meal and clears it away as Will did with his own container, zipping the bag closed and setting it by their feet. He rests his forearms on the table, the edge of it creaking to get used to his weight the same way houses and buildings yield to creatures like them, and Will mirrors him, for there must be balance in all things.

He meets Hannibal's eyes, finds them open and guileless, alight with the sun as she beams down on both of them like a doting parent watching her children play. Perhaps there is no conscious God anymore, but forces like gravity and tides, and that is what they should be paying homage to.

He sighs, and looks down at the file. "If he's getting more and more sick, he's probably stopped going to his treatment," he says. Hannibal nods, pressing his lips together. "Or he's just getting painkillers and stuff to help him go through the last of it. I have the location of his last murder, and I know which hospitals he went to, but pharmacy records are beyond me." He looks at Hannibal again. "Can you help?"

"Yes," Hannibal replies with a nod.

Will bites his lower lip. "Will you?"

"Yes," Hannibal says again. "But I feel I must ask you again, Will – when we find him, if Jack does not find him first, what will you do? You were very angry when last we spoke, at this man trying to force God's intercession without earning it."

Will swallows, and rolls his shoulders again, wincing at the strain between them. "I suppose that depends," he whispers.

"On?"

"What I can get away with."

Hannibal frowns, and shakes his head. "Will, I cannot legally help you if I know my assistance will result in the death of a man without fair trial." Of course, the angel of justice would not tolerate such a thing. "The people he killed, were they innocents?"

"I don't know," Will replies. "I can't read them once they're dead." Hannibal sighs again. "But if they were, does your call for vengeance not compel you to act? Deny it all you want, Hannibal, I know what you are, and I know what it is you do. You have no moral high ground, here."

Hannibal blinks at him, and then he smiles. "One could argue that, if I am the angel you believe me to be, I will always have the moral high ground."

"No, you just have better P.R.," Will snaps, but he's grinning. It's a long-running joke between demons and angels over which one of them are actually better people, made worse for the fact that none of them are, truly, people, and therefore to measure themselves against the laws of man is like trying to fly a lead balloon and being surprised when gravity does its work.

Hannibal smiles back at him, his eyes bright and reddening in the sun. His gaze moves from Will's eyes, to his mouth, to his chest, his hands, and then back up, and his throat flexes as he swallows, and then takes a drink of water.

"Would it be so bad?" Will whispers when he's finished. "Think of what we could do together, if all the truths were exposed." And perhaps this is how the Devil felt, tempting Jesus in the desert – 'Just be with me', he must have said, 'See me as I am, and I will give you everything'.

He reaches out, and takes Hannibal's hands in both his own. "Show me your wings," he begs.

Hannibal pulls back, shaking his head again. The warmth of him lingers in Will's palms, between his fingers, makes him ache. He wants so badly it weighs him like an anchor in his chest.

"You are a dear friend to me, Will," he says, "and it is because of this I must warn you against doing what I believe you intend to do."

"Don't lecture me," Will snaps, snarling the words. "How can you? I know what you do when the sun goes to sleep, Hannibal – I know who and what you are. And still, you are my friend, and still, I want to see you. I -."

He stops, and swallows.

"Are you afraid?" he asks. "Perhaps some part of you believes that if I see them, I will be no more than the shepherds, and recoil from you, or be destroyed by your radiance."

"It is not my radiance that worries me," Hannibal replies. "What blooms in you grows more fierce by the day, and I can see how it might change you. I fear losing you to a place where I cannot follow, and you cannot return from."

Hell. Will wants to deny it, but he is not sure he can. The Devil may be the most honest Prince of Lies ever to exist. He swallows, and lifts his eyes as Hannibal stands. "Will you make the calls?"

Hannibal nods, looking deeply troubled. "I will," he promises, and manages a small, tight smile. "And I will continue to help you, for I do believe this man should be caught. But I will not let you go to him alone, should you find him."

Will nods, and sighs, looking down at his hands. He closes his eyes, and thinks of the four horsemen, and wonders if the thundering in his head sounds more like cliffside waves or the pound of hooves. "Thank you."

He shivers, when he feels Hannibal's hand in his hair, and a gentle kiss placed to the top of his head. "You should get some sleep," he murmurs, and Will turns his head, lifts his eyes, to find Hannibal smiling at him. "I will call you when I have more information."

Will nods. He doesn't want to sleep, but Hannibal's touch is soothing, and he doesn't fight it as Hannibal pulls him to his feet, divests him of his dressing robe, and lays him down to rest on his mattress. He pulls the blankets up and calls Will's dogs back inside, and Will suddenly feels so heavy, leaden and weighted, and Hannibal gives him one last warm smile, before he leaves and closes the front door behind him.

Will is asleep before the abandoned coffee finishes brewing.


	4. Chapter 4

Will did not know what to call the emotion he felt before, looking upon the manmade angels, but Hannibal was right – it is anger. Riotous, ruinous anger, that floods his head and makes him see everything in a haze of gold and red. It is fury, carnal and deeply felt – how _dare_ he, how dare this traitor give wings to men when Will cannot regain his own. How dare he slaughter those God held above all else, Their own image, Their own flesh made mortal, and seek to mock God with this weak facsimile of an offering?

He stares up, shivering in the cold and the rain that sticks to him as though reaching through the air, centered on him and him alone. Were he in the company of his brothers and sisters, he could seek their wings for shelter, but alas, he is alone.

"Beware the false prophet," he mutters, staring, staring. "Believe not his lies."

"He slept on the mattress," Jack says. He's not looking up. Probably on purpose. Will doesn't care where he slept, because he rose again, and that means he's still out there somewhere. His upper lip twitches, and he lifts his eyes. Suspended from ropes between two pieces of scaffold, the latest angel hovers, his mouth open in song, his wings stretched bloody and red on either side of him, hooked and sagging.

In front of them, Beverly lets out a loud, discomforted noise. "Not all of him left," she says, and Will's eyes drop, brows rising when he takes in the heavy stain of blood on the mattress. There is something in the middle of it, suggestive for its shape.

"Gave himself an orchiectomy," Jimmy says, and snaps a picture. He looks up, finds Beverly and Brian watching him, and huffs. "What? That's what it's called." He looks down and takes another picture, flash dazzling Will's eyes, so he has to look away. "Not something I'd recommend trying at home."

Jack frowns. "So those are…his?"

"We'll need to run it through the lab to confirm, but…" Beverly looks up. "Doesn't look like they came from our angel up there."

Will closes his eyes. The smell is getting to him – urine and fever and vomit, blood and burned flesh. "Making angels isn't enough for him anymore," he murmurs. "He's trying to become one himself." Jack hums, and Will looks at him. "Angels don't have genitals, Jack. Not the ones in the Bible, anyway."

"God," Brian says, sucking a breath through his teeth. "That takes some…serious balls. Or lack thereof, I guess," he adds, wincing at the bad choice of words. "Imagine it would'a hurt like Hell. Can't believe no one saw anything."

Will's upper lip twitches again. "I hope it hurt," he snarls before he can stop himself.

There is silence, for a moment, and then Beverly clears her throat and says, "You seem to be taking this kind of personally, Will."

Of course he is. Why are they all so blind? Will has been nothing but open with them – with all of them. Is it his fault they don't listen? How is he supposed to feel, watching this bastard of a man, this stain of a human soul, mock his father's creation so brazenly in the name of buying himself a ticket through the pearly gates? _Damn_ him. Damn him to Hell with his room full of angels.

But he cannot say any of that. If he says too much, Jack will certainly scold him. Might even take him off the case, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he breathes out, wipes a hand over his face, and says; "I'm sorry. My dad was really into…the whole religion thing. Mom too. I guess it's just hitting me a little harder than I expected."

At that, Beverly's face softens in sympathy, and she gives him an understanding nod. She, Jimmy, and Brian turn away to continue photographing the scene, and Will looks back up, a shudder running through him at the blank canvas of a face that is Elliot Buddish's newest angel. How can he look so peaceful, so serene? Did he perhaps see God's love in his final moments, or simply found solace in helping a wayward soul find some measure of rest? He even looks like he's smiling.

"They say 'No greater love hath man, than to lay his life down for a friend'."

Will stiffens, turns to look over his shoulder. Hannibal is standing there, as though he appeared from thin air, smiling faintly and holding an umbrella, spread wide over his head so that it blocks out the streetlights. The darkness is gentle on Will's eyes. Jack turns away, to speak with the policewoman who had been first called to the scene.

"They also say the wolf has the greatest love for the sheep it doesn't eat," Will replies. Hannibal's smile widens, and he tilts his umbrella in offering. Will presses his lips together, and steps under it, and wonders if Hannibal's wings would feel as warm if he were using them. Maybe he is, and Will has lost the ability to see them – one more cruel trick his father could play, if it suited Them.

"Clearly, then, this angel's love outweighed that of the wolf," Hannibal murmurs. "We can only hope the next lamb is more lovely to its eye."

"I'd rather he starve," Will says, and then he grows tired of the metaphor. He rolls his shoulders, wincing when one of them pops, and swallows when Hannibal's head tilts, his eyes drawn towards the protesting muscle, the grind of bone. His free hand curls, like he wants to reach out and touch, but one thing they agreed on in their tentative arrangement, whatever one might call it – affection is not to be shared with the outside world. It is not in their nature to be so exposed. He wets his lips and looks up at the angel again from under the cover of the umbrella, now out of the rain, but feeling too humid and damp beneath the cover of the fabric. He shivers. "He castrated himself."

Hannibal hums. "Seeking a closeness to God?" he offers. Will nods, already suspecting such a thing. "I'd argue he's certainly going about it an interesting way. Surely, he would be compelled to perform stigmata on himself, first – to pierce his hands and feet, as the Son of Man was pierced."

"A crown of thorns and a lance in his side," Will adds with another nod. "Harder to hide, I think."

"Mm."

"Why are you here, Hannibal?" Will asks, and turns to look at him. Beneath the dark shade, he appears skeletal, lit from behind by the soft streetlight glow, but otherwise cast in shadow. Even the floodlights do not seem to touch him, only to highlight his cheekbones and jaw, the rest of him black. "Did Jack call you?"

"Yes," Hannibal replies. "He seemed concerned about how you would react."

Will huffs. Well, he supposes Jack's worry is not entirely groundless. He wipes a hand over his mouth, and shakes his head. "I'd say I'm not reacting well."

Hannibal nods, and presses his lips together. "Did you drive yourself here?"

"I rode with Jack."

"Let me take you home, then," Hannibal suggests, his voice low and coaxing like he is speaking to a wild animal. Will can only nod, in no mood to resist the call of something so much like himself, no matter how much Hannibal denies it. Hannibal smiles at him, eyes warming with affection, and he passes the umbrella to Will and strides over to Jack, to inform him that he will be removing Will from the scene.

Jack is clearly unhappy about that, but Hannibal is not a man easily argued with, and so he nods, and Hannibal returns to Will, taking the handle of the umbrella back from him. Their fingers brush, a teasing tendril of heat that worms its way up to Will's shoulder, and he shivers again and shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, following Hannibal out of the alleyway, past the yellow tape and policemen guarding the entrance, and towards Hannibal's familiar Bentley, parked down the street.

It is not the first time Will has ridden in Hannibal's car, though he tries to avoid sharing such a close space with him, simply because vehicles are too modern and too small to contain them both as houses might. Hannibal folds the umbrella, shakes it out, and puts it in the footwell of the backseat, before he climbs in as well. Will closes his eyes and tips his head back, smoothing his hand along the edge of the passenger window, soothing the car as it trembles and groans, so heavy and full with both of them inside it.

Hannibal turns the engine on, and like a fat, lazy cat being forced to move, it comes alive with a purr, and slow-rolls out of the parking space and onto the road. Will opens his eyes again, so he can see out, and rolls down the window.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asks.

Hannibal's lips purse, turn downwards at the corners in displeasure, but he sighs. "Feel free."

Will nods, patting his pockets for his damp pack of cigarettes. He pulls one out and lights it with a flame from the tip of his finger, puffing on the tip until the end glows cherry red. He holds the cigarette out of the window, for the sake of Hannibal's nose and the interior of his car, and sighs towards the open window, so the smoke is pulled out and away from Hannibal's face.

"Did you manage to find out anything?" he asks after a moment of silence. "From your pharmacy friends?"

"Only confirming what Mister Buddish's actions have already told us – he's remaining local. He has kept his listed address to that of his estranged wife, so that is no help to us, unfortunately."

Will hums, and takes another drag. "I would think he'd go to churches," he murmurs. "Homeless shelters run by the Salvation Army." He huffs – a short and bitter sound. "Somewhere God's love can be felt."

Hannibal is quiet for a while, and then he says, almost hesitantly; "You hate this man very much, don’t you?"

Will doesn't want to answer. He turns his face away and takes another long pull from the cigarette. It burns in his mouth, irritates his throat and lungs. He holds the smoke in until he can't stand it anymore and then lets it out through his nose, the sharpness of the smoke stinging him on the inside like an angry hornet.

"What if he succeeds?" he whispers. "What if he becomes an angel, and buys his way into Heaven? I can't -." He stops, bares his teeth, clenches his free fist on his thigh. Hannibal's car whines as his anger swells. "I can't stomach that thought. I couldn't bear it if -."

He swallows harshly.

"If this man can get into Heaven, why can't you, is that it?"

Will snorts. "I don't belong in Heaven," he replies darkly, and pulls from his cigarette again.

"Where then?"

"I used to know the answer. I remember knowing what the answer was, but now I don't anymore. I don't even know what it used to be. It's faded from me like a childhood dream." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Does it even matter? The world is on fire, the End is Nigh if half the shit going on is to be believed. What does it matter what I do?"

"I'd argue it matters a great deal," Hannibal replies. He pauses at a red light, and looks at Will. Will refuses to meet his eyes. "The Devil has a part to play in Revelations, just like the rest of us." Will blinks, and frowns.

The light turns green, and Will huffs, and finishes his cigarette, flicking the butt out to the street. He blows out his lungful of smoke. "Fuck that," he says, and is surprised when Hannibal laughs – openly, loudly, like it was startled out of him. "Maybe I'm done sitting around and waiting for my cue."

He can feel Hannibal smiling. "So, if you will not wait, do you intend to steal the show?"

Will winces, and rolls the window back up. "Or I could just leave," he murmurs, and turns to look at Hannibal again. "But I get the feeling that you would prefer I didn't." Hannibal's head tilts, and in answer, he blinks, once, slowly – Will knows it's as good an admission as he's going to get, and so he contents himself with that, and settles in the passenger seat with another small huff.

He wants another cigarette, but senses Hannibal's graciousness will only extend so far, so he resists. "Do you know your Bible?"

"I have read it, yes," Hannibal replies with a nod. "Several translations over the years, in many languages and many versions." His lips twitch in a smile, less amused than it is strained. "The Devil does not come off well in it."

"Every good story needs a villain," Will replies, and looks away again. He knows Hannibal is not taking Will to his home in Wolf Trap, they are not heading towards the beltway, but outside Annapolis, where Hannibal lives. Even if he wanted to protest, he is too tired, suddenly, to bother. Besides, Hannibal has good whiskey, and Will was called out late, so his dogs have already been fed. "If you're gonna be the villain, might as well be the best one you can be."

Hannibal hums. "Your perception of this nature you claim is the Devil is remarkably Christian."

"The Devil is Christian," Will replies. "They're the ones who made him up, gave him a name and a form in the darkness."

"And yet he is based on the Jewish angel Samael, is he not?" Will frowns. "Samael was not inherently evil – in fact, his primary task was the destruction of sinners."

Will huffs. "You talk like you knew him."

Hannibal smiles at him, and shakes his head. "I find religion fascinating, is all. All aspects of it." He turns onto the street that leads past his house, parks his car by the curb, and kills the engine, and the car breathes a sigh of relief as Will gets out. He lights another cigarette because Hannibal has no reason to protest when Will isn't in his car or his house.

Hannibal, too, seems in no hurry to go inside. He leans against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, content to let Will smoke. His head is turned upwards, eyeing the clouds and the sky – they outran the rain, or perhaps it already passed this way. The ground is damp.

Will mimics him, leaning against the side of his car door, and crosses his legs at the ankle, letting the vehicle bear his weight as he takes another long pull from the cigarette, lets it fill his mouth and clog his throat, and then he tilts his head up and lets it out. "Destroyer of sinners, huh?" he murmurs, and Hannibal nods. "Not much of a difference."

"It's all propaganda, in the end," Hannibal agrees with a smile, and Will huffs a laugh. "But the sheep may not know the difference between a wolf and a sheepdog, except by the way it behaves around their shepherd. Culling the heard due to disease is no evil thing, Will."

Will's mouth twists. "Is Elliot Buddish the sheep I do not eat?" he asks.

"I suppose that's up to you."

Will sighs, and drops his cigarette, still unfinished, squashing it beneath the toe of his shoe. "Probably a stupid question, but I guess I'm spending the night?" Hannibal smiles, and nods, pushing from his car and leading the way to the front of his brownstone, Will following like a dog on a leash. He has spare sets of clothes here, and guest toiletries – Hannibal provided those after the first night Will showed up, in some unspoken agreement that Will would always be welcome here, and could make use of them. It's another one of those things they don't talk about, simply accept, as if it's as easy as that.

"Would you like something to eat, before you go to bed?" Hannibal offers, taking Will's coat with that familiar brush down his shoulders, aching to soothe. Will wonders if he feels God's grace in his hands, and wants to press it to Will's sore muscles, but resists for whatever reason – the same reason that keeps him from showing Will his wings. Will's fingers curl, and he shakes his head.

"I'm good," he replies, and takes off his shoes, leaving them by the door. He offers a weak smile as Hannibal steps back, allowing him to pass and make his way to the stairs. "Thank you, Hannibal."

"It's my pleasure, Will. Good night."

"Good night."

 

 

Will wakes in the early hours, for he has never needed much sleep, and what he does get is fitful. What wakes him, however, is a sense of a presence, something black and shapeless that he feels prowling at the edge of Hannibal's home. He rises, and pads downstairs, opens the door to see his hellhound sitting at the end of the little walkway leading to the sidewalk. She blinks at him, panting, and woofs in her base, growling way, as if to demand 'What on Earth are you doing _here_?'

Will smiles at her, and walks to her, reaching out and petting over the sleek, leathery skin pulled tight across her skull. He crouches down and cups her ragged, dripping jaws. "I want you to find someone for me," he whispers to her. Her ears twitch, flies buzzing around them, and her broad tongue laps at her nose. "Elliot Buddish. Find him."

She growls, showing her rows of shark-like teeth, and Will stands, letting her go. She turns and lopes away, disappearing into the darkness behind one streetlight, and does not emerge into the second. She can melt between shadows with ease, as if she were one of them.

Will shivers in the cold, and turns around, walking back inside and absently wiping his bare feet on the welcome mat before stepping in. He closes the door behind him, and winces when a light comes on in the hallway. He turns, and sees Hannibal standing at the top of the stairs.

Hannibal's head tilts in question.

"I won't apologize," Will says.

"Is there something you wish to confess?" Hannibal replies.

Will huffs, snaps his teeth together, and looks away. "No."

Hannibal hums, and nods as though to himself. "Perhaps for the best. I have no power to forgive you, one way or the other." The words do not soothe, though Will isn't sure they were meant to. His shoulders hurt, burdened by the weight of Hannibal's home over his head. He feels like he's suffocating in this place, with both of them inside it – but in a warm, welcome way, like the press of bathwater over his knees and his chest, the weight of the ocean threatening to swallow him whole if he stops treading water for even a moment.

He breathes out. Looks up. Hannibal sighs, and presses his lips together, his fingers tapping against each other in an odd nervous tic, before he sighs again. "Are you still tired?"

Will shakes his head.

"I'll make breakfast," Hannibal says, and comes down the stairs. Will steps back to let him pass, and Hannibal pauses at the bottom of them. He reaches out, and Will hates how nice it feels, to be touched by him – this man, this angel who denies who he is to the one person who might be able to understand what it's like.

 _Can you go home?_ He wants to ask it. He doesn't.

Hannibal's hand brushes over Will's shoulder, slides up to his neck and kneads the tense muscles below his skull. Will doesn't look at him, stares pointedly at his chest, and Hannibal's touch leaves him after a moment. His skin burns where his hand was.

"Hannibal," he breathes, and Hannibal pauses, eyes him, his face carefully neutral. He looks tired. Maybe he feels the same as Will does, when they are both in his house – close-knit, cramped, forced together like the walls are closing in. Will rolls his shoulders, grits his teeth, forces himself to ask; "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you are my friend, Will," Hannibal replies. "Because I care about you."

Will expected that answer. He doesn't like it – it's plastic and shallow and fake. But he nods, and follows Hannibal into the kitchen in silence.

When the coffee is brewing and the stove is warming, he asks; "You said we all had a part to play in Revelations." Hannibal hums, his back still turned. "What part does the angel Raguel play, when the End of Days comes?"

Hannibal pauses, and lifts his head. Still, he does not turn. "I suppose, according to your theory, Raguel is one of Michael's," he replies. "He would be tasked with taking up arms and defeating the dragon, during the End Times."

Will swallows. "Will he?"

Hannibal is silent for another moment, busying himself with cracking and stirring eggs in a bowl, adding milk to the mixture. He sets the bowl down, and turns, meeting Will's eyes.

"One of the advantages of humanity over the angelic host is the gift of free will," he replies. Will frowns, tilting his head. "If you believe I am Raguel, and I have walked amongst humans as you did, and chose to remain, as you have – well, do you think he would simply take up arms without question, and fight simply because he was told to?"

"I don't know," Will replies. There is something in Hannibal's eyes, shining and dark, like gemstones rooted deep in the side of the mountain just waiting to be brought into the sunlight. "I'd like to think that he wouldn't. I'd like to think that he was my friend."

Hannibal smiles. "As would I," he murmurs, and turns back to their meal, pouring the eggs onto a heated and greased pan. Will watches them bubble, sizzle in the heat, and he shivers, fingers curling to fists at his sides.

He wants to ask, wants to pry. Wants to fall to his knees and beg Hannibal to show him his wings. He wants it so badly his vision is greying at the edges, and he has to sit at one of the barstools, breathing out heavily. He's so tired, exhausted by the weight of it all.

"I'm going to kill Elliot Buddish," he says. Hannibal's hands go still again. "I sent my hound to find him. When she does, I'm going too. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

He means to incense, and he can see Hannibal's shoulders tense, just barely, like he's fighting the urge to release his wings. But Hannibal doesn't – he sighs, and nods as though to himself, and turns his attention back to the eggs.

"So be it."


	5. Chapter 5

It is when Will is home, nursing whiskey and a cigarette and staring out towards the black, gaping maw of the trees lining his home, that he hears the howl. He stiffens immediately, swinging his feet down from where he'd had his heels resting on the railing, presses them flat to the floor, and stands, eyes narrowing and gaze sharpening as he looks for the telltale glow of his hound's eyes.

He lifts his cigarette to his mouth and breathes in, smoking it down to the butt, and puts the stub beneath his foot, crushing it with the ball as he lets out a breath, wincing at the sharp burn of the red end against his skin. It fades quickly, and his vision is momentarily clouded with the smoke of his exhale, too thick in the windless night to see through.

But then, parting like mist for Charon, it dissipates and he sees her, and grins. He finishes his whiskey and sets the tumbler down, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and trots barefoot off his porch towards her, where she's sitting and panting by his letterbox.

"You found him?" he asks. She licks her ragged, dripping muzzle, tilts her head and fixes him with an impatient look. He smiles at her, and pets over one of her fly-infested ears in answer, wetting his lips. His mouth burns with the alcohol, and his head feels heavy as though filled with fog, but she knows where Elliot Buddish is, and the longer he waits, the chance increases of there being another angel come morning.

He runs a hand through his hair, and hurries back to his house, throwing on a jacket and stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes. He spares one look to his dogs, making sure they're all settled for the night, and then grabs his keys, locking the door behind him and going to his car.

He starts it, turning it in a sharp spray of loose mud as he turns it towards the street. His hound rises, growling in that bass, rumbling way she does, and waits until he has turned around the letterbox, before she perks her ears up, barks at him, and turns tail, fleeing down the street and towards D.C.. Will grits his teeth, lights up another cigarette, and follows.

 

 

Hannibal freezes, lifting his chin and tilting his head as he hears it. A soft, melancholy sound like the wailing of an injured dog. His upper lip twitches, remembering Will's promise to hunt down the angel-maker and give him his own sense of justice.

His fingers curl, and his shoulders grow tense with the effort to contain his wings. He shakes his head, growling softly to himself, and tries to tune out the noise. But it heightens, grows in volume, joins in a chorus as undoubtedly other hunters are called to the chase, and he cannot ignore it any longer.

He stands from his dining room table, and goes to the front hall, donning his coat and slipping on a pair of shoes. One thing is for certain – he cannot let Will fall prey to his need for vengeance, not when the reasons for it are so misguided. Yes, he understands that the Devil may be angry at a man trying to buy his way into Heaven, but Mister Buddish is sick, barely able to understand what he is doing; a slave to the compulsions of his disintegrating mind. Taking out righteous fury on such a man is not what the Devil does.

He leaves his home, hurrying to his car and wincing at the chaotic, discordant noise of the howl as it rises up around him, sinking into his neck and shaking him like a dog trying to break it. He knows mortals cannot hear it, for the call of the hounds of Hell is only for those who have heard it before – warnings to the damned, and a call to arms for those able to hear the sound.

It feels like it takes hours for him to locate the source, and he pulls up outside an abandoned barn behind a condemned farmhouse, noting with dismay that Will's car is already parked outside. He sees the big black dog that must be Will's hound sitting beside the car, panting, her tail wagging wildly. He kills the engine and steps out, and she looks at him, blinks and licks her muzzle as though surprised to see him.

"Where is your master?" he asks her, and she huffs, and looks at the barn again.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and strides past her, confidently entering the barn. There is a single light, a barren-edged thing that illuminates a halo of concrete. He sees Will, standing facing away from him, looking up. Hannibal follows his gaze, sees what he can only assume is Elliot Buddish himself, strung up like the angel he left in the alley. He's still alive, blood dripping fresh from between his lips, his bound arms, his splayed-open back.

Will tilts his head. He does not turn, but he must know Hannibal is there. "Not long now," he says. He sounds drunk, or high, or perhaps some measure of both. He's smoking, and takes a draw from his cigarette, letting his breath out in a thick plume of smoke.

"What did you do, Will?" Hannibal demands, unable to keep the outrage from his voice.

Will tilts his head again, a little further, so Hannibal can see the corner of his smiling mouth, his dimpled cheek, the tip of his nose. "I didn't do anything," he replies, too-lightly. Above them, Elliot Buddish coughs, and stares down at them like he's seeing God. He might be trying to smile, but it's too dark to really see his face.

Will lifts his eyes. "Do you see his soul?" he murmurs. "It's so…green." He hums. "Green is the color of envy. But longing, too – yellow at the edges. Do you see it?"

"All I see is a man slowly dying," Hannibal replies. "Undoubtedly put there by your hand."

Will laughs. "I didn't do anything to him," he says again. "I found him like this."

Hannibal doesn't believe that for a second, though he can note there's no blood on Will's hands, no sweat on his brow. Nothing hinting that he partook in the task of putting Elliot up there, or opened up his back, or helped him tie the knots. Of course, he doesn't know the extent of Will's power, either – perhaps he cleaned himself up, knowing Hannibal would come.

He approaches, a prickling in his shoulders the closer he gets to the growing puddle of blood. The air reeks of pain, of flesh torn open, of vomit and urine. He breathes through his mouth, and goes to Will, putting a hand on his shoulder. As he always does, Will tenses, arching into the touch like a needy animal, and he sighs, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with his shoe. He picks it up when it's cooled, and puts it in his pocket, smearing his toe through the streak of ash.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, a soft plea; "Please don't lie to me. If you had any part in this I need to know."

"Why?" Will demands. Still, he will not look Hannibal's way. His eyes are magnetized up, and Hannibal wonders what Elliot looks like through his eyes. His own shoulders are tense, his spine vibrating with the need to releases his wings, to go up there and help the man down, though he's sure there is no helping him now – he will not see the sunrise, Hannibal is sure, no matter how much Hannibal tries to heal him. There are some things even beyond his power, and angels have never been given the task of directly  interfering with the Devil's work.

"If you don't care about the laws of the land, consider the laws of your father," Hannibal says. Will presses his lips together, his nostrils flaring, eyes following another thick wad of bloody saliva as it pools and falls from Elliot Buddish's mouth. "You are not supposed to directly slaughter the cows, Will – just point them in the right direction."

Will lets out a bitter, ugly sound. "I told you I'm tired of waiting," he spits, his eyes sliding just briefly to the corners, to glare at Hannibal's shadow. "I'm done playing my part. I can do whatever I want."

" _Will_." Hannibal turns him forcefully, planting his hands on Will's shoulders and holding him fast. "This is not your role. You have no idea what will happen if you kill this man."

"And you do?" Will demands, shoving his hands away with surprising strength. Hannibal can smell whiskey on his breath, and he swallows. "You, the all-knowing angel of justice and redemption – tell me then." Will's voice is low, snapping, vitriol coating his tongue like the venom of a serpent. "What happens if I let him die?"

"His death is inevitable," Hannibal replies. "It's your participation that concerns me." Will glares at him, openly now, his eyes bright in the halo of light, a blistering shade of blue that makes Hannibal think of shattered stained glass. His upper lip twitches, showing the edges of his teeth, and Hannibal reaches for him again, surprised when Will doesn't flinch back, nor make any move to stop his touch from landing. His hand flattens on Will's shoulder, feels the muscles there trembling and warm like he's been injured, going into shock. "You're not a murderer."

"You have no idea what I am," Will snarls, tense and defensive.

"Yes I do," Hannibal says quietly, tightly. Will's eyes snap to him again, widen, darken. Hannibal can feel the heat of Elliot's soul as it begins to coalesce in his chest, ready to escape his body. His death is inevitable, there's nothing Hannibal can do about that, but Will can't be here, can't claim it for his own, when he leaves the mortal coil. "I do know."

Will's brow creases. He wets his lips, looks down at Hannibal's shoes, then back up. His frown deepens.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

Hannibal sighs. He debates lying, clinging to the admittedly tenuous and thin veneer of his own mortality, his own humanness, that he kept for Will's sake when thinking he was just a sick man was safer for him. But the Devil, coming into his own, is the Prince of Lies. He knows a liar when he sees one.

"I heard your hound," he admits. Will's eyes widen, and he looks out through the doors of the open barn, where his hound is still sitting by his car, watching the show. "I heard the howl, the chase that you promised. I heard it and I came."

"You came to stop me," Will murmurs.

"I came to stop you," Hannibal agrees with a small nod. "And now that I'm here, will you let me?"

Will swallows, lines his teeth on their edges, clenches his jaw. "It's too late," he replies with a shake of his head. "He's going to die."

"But you don't need to be here when he does," Hannibal finishes, and cups Will's hands, finds his pulse racing within his wrists. Will's fingers twitch, like the throes of a dying man, and curl up as spiders in Hannibal's palm. "Will, _please_. You have trusted me this far."

"What does it matter?" Will demands again, yanking his hands free and taking a step back. His heel hits the growing pool of blood and Hannibal presses his lips together, his fingers twitching as he resists the urge to clean the place entirely, body and all. He will have to make sure Will's shoe print is not there when the inevitable call comes upon the discovery of the body. "Who cares if I killed him, or didn't kill him, or if I'm here when he dies, or I'm not here, or even if he dies at all? Who _cares_?"

"I care," Hannibal replies. His shoulders are starting to ache, the tightly wound press of his wings is almost unbearable. In the face of Will's challenge, he wants to flare them wide, show Will every inch of righteous fury he is, wants to see him cower with fear and awe as humans should. But Will is not human – he may flinch, he may bow his head, but he will not kneel.

Will goes still, and blinks at him. His eyes dart to Hannibal's chest, to the void of space at his shoulders, and a powerful shiver runs through him. He looks down at his own hands, curls his fingers until his nails dig into his palms, and bites his lower lip hard.

Above them, Elliot coughs, and Hannibal is too aware that he is moments away from death. He reaches for Will, holds out a single hand, outstretched, palm tilted up in offering. "Will," he implores, one more time. "Come with me."

He can tell Will wants to resist – wants to shake his head and snap his teeth. But his shoulders drop, face torn and lax with surrender, and he puts his hand within Hannibal's, allows Hannibal's fingers to curl around his wrist, meeting the flutter of his pulse. Hannibal tugs him towards the door to the barn and Will's bloodied heel leaves a series of small imprints, of stains, as they leave the halo of lighted concrete and step out onto the grass. As soon as they cross the threshold, Elliot Buddish breathes his last with a sharp, aching cry, and leaves this world for good.

Will's lips twitch in a smile. He lifts his eyes, looks to the Heavens, and sighs. "It is finished," he murmurs, and Hannibal wonders if he's deliberately choosing the last words spoken by the Son of God, the last thing he said before bowing his head and dying on the cross. It causes a strange, uncomfortable tension in his stomach, but at least out here the air is open enough that his wings do not feel so awfully constricted.

Will sighs again, and takes his hand away, pulling out his packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one with a flame from the tip of his finger. He places the pad to the end until it glows cherry red, fits the stick between his fore- and middle finger, and takes in a deep breath. Lowers the cigarette and blows out his plume of smoke to the open air.

His hound is gone, her work finished, the hunt over. Perhaps she took Elliot's soul in her jaws, and is now ferrying him to his final resting place.

Will looks at him, the darkness in his eyes too close to unreadable for comfort. His head tilts. He smiles, showing the sharper points of his canines. "Does it make you happy, to thwart Satan and all his wrongdoings?"

"I don't know what I'm feeling in this moment," Hannibal replies, a quiet admission. "Except, perhaps, relief."

"Relief," Will repeats.

Hannibal nods. "Do you know the role of Raguel?" Will hums, and shakes his head. "He is likened to the lawman; he keeps fallen angels in line, and smites those who overstep their boundaries. The destroyer of the wicked, he who brings judgement on the fallen if they go against God's will."

Will stares at him. And then he laughs – it's bordering on hysterical. "Oh," he says, and takes another pull from his cigarette. The scent of it is sharp, almost pleasant before it becomes stale. He releases his breath and shakes his head. "So that's why you keep insisting I stick to my role."

"You are not a murderer, Will," Hannibal tells him. "Even by proxy."

"Under whose law?" Will replies, brow arching. "God's? Yours? The will of man?" He laughs again, this time much more bitter; a bark of dark humor. "How can you do what you do and judge me for my own actions? I have always known what you are – but because you are my friend, I continue to eat at your table and sleep under your roof. Where do _your_ loyalties lie, oh Raguel the Just?"

Before Hannibal can reply, Will shakes his head again, and crushes his half-smoked cigarette in his palm, uncaring for the heat. He pockets it like he did the first butt. "I don't understand you," he says bitterly. "Maybe I never will."

Hannibal swallows, looking away, and slides his hands into the pockets of his coat. The air lacks a breeze, and feels almost unbearably humid. He rolls his shoulders and sees, in his periphery, Will do the same in a mimicking action.

"If you had claimed that man as your kill, I would have been forced to act," he finally says, in the wake of Will's continued silence. "Of all the sins I have committed, for the sake of balance in the world, I would have considered harming you to be the worst."

"You resist condemning yourself," Will replies with a small, sage nod. "Are you still in favor with my father, then?"

"I don't know about that," Hannibal says, and lifts his eyes. "In truth, I don't much care, for I'm sure if God had an opinion about what I do, They would have acted sooner." His lips twist in a wry smile. "Perhaps my friendship with you is a test. One I admit I must be failing."

Will huffs. "Great," he mutters.

"I consider you my friend, Will," Hannibal continues, and looks to him again. "I don't want to see you hurt."

"But I am hurt," Will replies. "I hurt every day."

"Tell me how to help you, then. How to ease your pain."

Will's eyes darken, and rake over Hannibal slowly. He swallows, and huffs, running a hand through his hair. "You know what I want," he says, more bitterness returning to his voice. "I'd offer to show you mine if you show me yours, but I can't exactly do that."

Hannibal is not prepared for the ache that blooms in his chest at those words. How cruel of God, he thinks, to take an angel's wings. "I'd like to see the scars," he says instead.

Will's eyes flash, his mouth twisting in an ugly, resigned little smile. "Fine," he replies, and looks to his car. Lifts his chin. "I'll follow you."

Hannibal nods, and waits until Will is in his car, before he turns and looks towards the barn. He goes back inside, carefully willing away the tracks from Will's shoe, the mark of it in the blood stain. He wipes away the smear of ash from his cigarette, cleanses the air of the smell of smoke. He spares one last look to Elliot Buddish, finds his face lax and pale in death. There is a smile on his face, something serene, and peaceful. He cannot remember Will ever looking so blessedly calm, and another bloom of something fierce and angry, an echo of Will's own outrage, sparks behind his eyes.

Despite himself, he hopes that Elliot did not make it to Heaven. He hopes he is somewhere deep and dark, trapped for eternity in his own torment.

He leaves the barn and climbs into his car, starting it and leading the way off the farm. As Will follows, Hannibal makes sure that their tire tracks leave no trace, and have been completely removed, so that there is nothing left behind to hint at their presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is becoming something else but idk enough about it yet - there might be a summary update coming!  
> Along with other things....


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal parks his car on the left of two vacant spots, waiting until Will pulls up next to him before he kills the engine and steps out. Will follows suit, both of them rolling their shoulders when finally free of the confines of their vehicles. Will has another cigarette, and though Hannibal know he smokes, he hasn't seen Will do it so much since he tried to quit, when their therapy sessions started. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Will leans against the hood of his car as it pops and cools, settling like a creature that has just thrown up a too-large meal; groaning quietly around its own emptiness. He goes to Will and leans beside him, his coat protecting him from the heat of the engine, and watches the sky as Will fills it with his smoke clouds.

Will sighs, and takes a handful of butts from his pocket, scattering them along the ground like breadcrumbs, and adds his most recent to it, brushing off his hands on his jacket. Hannibal's nostrils flare, and he straightens without a word, leading the way into his home. The bearings and the rafters creak, taking in a deep breath of readiness for the presence of two powerful creatures, and he takes Will's coat as he always has, hangs it as Will sheds his shoes as he always does. When Hannibal has divested himself of his own shoes and coat, he leads the way to the kitchen.

He pours them both glasses of water, and Will washes his hands to rid them of the cling of cigarette smoke, cups his hand under the stream and washes out his mouth as well, spitting into the sink, before he takes the offered glass and swallows a mouthful.

He sighs, arm folded across his chest as though to protect it, fingers dug deep into the opposite inner elbow, rim of his glass resting against his lips. His eyes are distant, locked somewhere far away, and for a long time they merely stand and sip, listening to Hannibal's home settle itself around them.

"I've never shown anyone my scars," Will whispers, finally, his breath causing the side of the glass to mist. He takes a drink as Hannibal does. "They're ugly, and big."

"The Devil was said to be the most beautiful and glorious of all God's angels," Hannibal replies with a nod. Will winces, his eyes tightening at the corners. Hannibal hesitates over his next words, but adds; "I'll admit my own wings have not been well kept in the recent years. You may scold me for their state, once you see them."

Something flashes in Will's eyes – something feral and animal, a fierce hope Hannibal can tell he's trying to keep control of. His irises brighten in the low light of the kitchen, he swallows, and takes another drink of water.

"Why?" he asks.

Hannibal lifts his shoulders in a shrug, feels them tense and tight, his wings aching to be let free. "Grooming is an intensive task," he replies. "And I can't exactly reach them in my human shape to keep them clean."

"I can help you," Will replies. Hannibal nods, hiding his smile into another swallow. There have never been angels on earth long enough to warrant them having to groom each other, but wings are a part of them as any other – Will touching them would be no more intimate than holding his hand, or touching his face.

But of course, he is not so naïve to think that it is not an intimate thing; to show Will his greatest strength and greatest vulnerability. And it is an action, a gift, that Will cannot reciprocate, making it even more powerful a gesture. Despite himself, Hannibal thinks the emotion thrumming in his chest is more akin to anticipation than anything else.

Will presses his lips together, tips his head back and finishes his water, setting the glass on the side of the sink with a gasp. Hannibal follows suit, stepping close to Will's side to set his own glass down, and goes still when Will's hand snakes on the inside of his forearm, gripping tight.

"Hannibal," he whispers, and Hannibal turns his head, sees Will looking just past his shoulder, where his wings will manifest and show when he is ready to reveal them. In Will's voice is a fierce, sharp ache, so thick with longing it feels like a weight on Hannibal's shoulders, digging behind his eyes. Will lifts his gaze, meets Hannibal's. "Why now?"

Hannibal sighs through his nose, and cups Will's face with his free hand, forcing him to turn so they're facing each other. Will's eyes shine, bright and glacial, his cheeks flushing a delicate pink under Hannibal's thumb as he brushes it across the ridge of bone.

"Because you trusted me," Hannibal replies. "You always have. It would be selfish of me to deny you now, something that is so easy to give, in answer to that trust."

Will blinks, and turns his face away, a wretched downward tilt pulling at the corners of his mouth. He takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and runs a hand through his hair. Still, he grips Hannibal's forearm fiercely, and slides his hand down to lace their fingers together.

Hannibal smiles at him, and tugs on his hand, leading him out of the kitchen. "Come, Will," he coaxes, and Will nods, following Hannibal up the stairs and towards the bedroom Will takes when he sleeps under Hannibal's roof.

The room Will keeps is a plain affair, painted a soft grey on the walls, with dark hardwood flooring, a carpet around the bed in a light swirl of silver and blue. There are black cabinets and black doors on the wall closet, the frame of the bed also black, the sheets another shimmering silvery color that catches and reflects moonlight when the curtains are pulled back. They are closed at the moment, so that when Hannibal turns on the light, it is a stark and harsh white light that makes Will wince.

He dims it to halfway, muting the illumination, and Will closes the door behind him. The ceiling above their heads groans in protest, adjusting its belt so that the rest of the house helps to bear the load, and Hannibal looks up, lips pursing, and gives a soft huff as Will pulls his hand away.

"I miss Italy," he murmurs idly. "I never had this problem there."

"Angels in America," Will replies with a soft edge of humor. "Rarer than you'd think."

Hannibal smiles, and turns to him, gently touching his fingers to Will's chin so Will lifts his face. "You first," he murmurs, and Will nods, pressing his lips together. He steps back, lowering his gaze, and tugs his t-shirt over his head, baring his smooth chest and stomach. He holds the garment for a moment, and then folds it in half, tossing it on the edge of the bed.

He turns, baring his back to Hannibal's eager gaze. Hannibal does not know what he expected to see – Will called his scars big, and ugly, but even still Hannibal is shocked by the sight of them. They span from the center of his spine and dip below his shoulder blades, a series of thick knots of scar tissue where the attaching joint would normally be. There is a second set, lining the outside of his spine, that stops halfway down his back – his auxiliary wings, smaller ones that would help shield his thighs and stomach from an attack.

Hannibal breathes out, stepping close to Will. The scars are several shades darker than the rest of him, the same pink as the innards of rare meat, bulging thickly in lines almost an inch wide. Will's wings must have been quite large to warrant such a thick base, and to leave behind such terrible scars when they were torn from his back.

Will is utterly still, statuesque, without his usual jitters or shakiness. But when Hannibal touches him, presses his fingers gently over the tip of Will's topmost scar, his back arches like a shock of lightning has just passed down his spine and he lets out the most pitiful, weak little sound Hannibal has ever heard. Even dying animals don't make a noise like that.

He steps up close and pushes his hands flat and wide beneath Will's shoulder blades, cupping the line of the scars. They follow the saddle of his thumb and the stretch of his forefinger almost perfectly, and Will groans again, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his head tilted away from Hannibal so that Hannibal cannot see his face. But he doesn't need to see Will's face to smell his tears, hear how he chokes around a ragged inhale and lets it out far too slowly.

He is overwhelmed with a mesh of feelings he could not name. There is anger, for the God that would rip Their child's wings from their backs. There is pity, for he can see how distraught Will is. There is also, startling with its ferocity, the incredible urge to soothe, to ease his pain, though it goes far beyond Hannibal's ability to do such a thing. He cannot regrow Will's wings for him, no matter how much he wants to. There is sorrow; a deeply felt and sharp thing, spearing his gut.

There is even, in some primal and proud piece of his mind, satisfaction. The Devil has been brought low, is shaking and whimpering beneath his hands. Hannibal could so easily twist the knife of cruelty deeper and flay Will where he stands, make him into his own awful facsimile of an angel. Hannibal is strong, is powerful, and could crush him with little effort.

He does not do that. Merely slides his hands outwards, around, and then inwards again, embracing Will tightly beneath his arms so Will's back is pressed to his chest. Will sags against him, and Hannibal closes his eyes, and releases his own wings with a soft fluttering sound, drawing them in another tight embrace around Will's body and shutting out the light.

A violent tremor runs down Will's spine at the first brush of feathers to his bare skin, and he lets out a wounded, animal noise, the salt of his tears thickening the dampening, warm air trapped beneath Hannibal's wings. He stretches them out, a low rumble of his own sticking in his throat from the relief of letting them relax, and he shakes them, coaxing ruffled feathers to fall back into place, to align themselves, his sore shoulder muscles aching from keeping them pinned for so long.

Will is still, silent except for his heavy gasps, and Hannibal smiles, and touches his lips to the delicate skin beneath his ear, flushed and barely containing his pulse. "You can touch them, if you'd like," he murmurs. In the darkness, Will's breathing is all the more loud, ragged. Hannibal closes his eyes and his fingers flex on Will's chest as Will reaches out and gently, so gently, smooths one of his hands through his covert feathers, the thick clusters of them lining the elbow joint and stretching towards the wrist.

He swallows loudly, and Hannibal hums, keeping his hands still, resting over Will's chest and the top of his stomach, simply cradling him and keeping him upright as Will pets through his brittle, thick feathers.

Will grunts, and says roughly; "These are a mess."

Hannibal cannot help but laugh. "Like I said; they're in quite a sorry state," he replies. The way Will is touching him is not unlike having his thumb brush across the back of Hannibal's hand – a gentle, intimate touch. More than friends, but not quite lovers. A dance done on the tips of one's toes, so delicately balanced and just waiting to fall one way or the other.

Will makes a quiet sound, like he's not listening, and slides his fingers up, careful not to bend or ruffle Hannibal's feathers too badly. The air stinks of his tears, both shed and waiting their turn, and Hannibal's arms tighten around him, he folds his wings in closer until they are wrapped around their shoulders instead, letting their heads free and exposing them to the light again.

"Raguel's wings are not grey," he murmurs.

Hannibal shakes his head. "They dulled when I came to Earth," he replies. "And then time and lack of care did the rest."

Will's other hand comes forward, slides down the outermost primary feather of Hannibal's right wing, which is large enough to almost rival the length of his arm. He comes to the wrist bone and wraps a gentle hand around it. "I wonder," he says lightly, and then stops, swallowing loud enough his throat clicks.

Hannibal hums curiously. "What is it, Will?"

"I have dreams about losing my wings," Will tells him. His eyes are wide, fixed on the dull feathers trapped beneath his hands. He pets up them, ruffling the upper ridge like fur on a cat, but smooths them before Hannibal can make a noise of discomfort. Hannibal nods, able to feel the knotted ridges of Will's scars given how closely they're pressed, against his chest. "They might be memories. I don't know."

He turns his head, his cheek brushing the tip of Hannibal's nose. "Do you remember when you first got sent down here?"

Hannibal sighs through his nose, dragging his thumb absently over Will's sternum. "Another dream that might be a memory," he replies.

"You were sent down here for a reason, I imagine," Will murmurs.

"Aren't we all?"

Will turns, forcing Hannibal to release him, though he can't bear to do more than settle his hands on Will's forearms, holding him gently, his wings fanning the air and coming to their natural resting spot at his back. Will's eyes flash up to them, wide with wonder – but not only that, fierce envy he can't quite hide.

He swallows again, and meets Hannibal's eyes. "To keep fallen angels in line," he says quietly. "Are there more of us, then?"

Hannibal lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "I couldn't possibly say," he replies honestly. "In truth, Will, it doesn't particularly concern me. I don't care about their wrongdoings. I don't care about their lives. I care about your life."

" _Why_?" Will demands, as harshly as he had when they stood at Elliot Buddish's final resting place. As desperate and hollow as when they were just in the kitchen mere moments ago. His eyes are bright with tears, streaks of them creating lines in his flushed cheeks, and he grits his teeth, looks down at where Hannibal's hands are spread wide on his forearms. His fists clench, but he doesn't pull away.

Before Hannibal can answer, Will speaks again, his voice low and bitter; "You should just send me home," he growls; a broken thing choking on stained glass. "Just fuckin'…smite me, cast me down, whatever the kids are calling it nowadays. Send me back where I belong."

"You don't belong down there," Hannibal replies, his fingers tightening. Will winces, though Hannibal is sure he's not in pain. Not all pain is physical. Will lifts his eyes again. He's stopped crying, stubbornly beating back his emotions, but in their wake blooms the fiery gaze of something angry, green with envy, monstrous. The same creature, Hannibal suspects, that would have been unleashed had Hannibal allowed Will to claim Buddish's life as one of his own kills.

"Then where?" Will says, cutting. Laughs, scornfully; "With you?"

"Why not?" Will stills, straightens, his teeth clicking together with a sharp snap. "I cannot stop you doing as you will – you know the consequences, now, and you know it would pain me greatly to be the one to bring them down upon you. But you also told me you were done playing your part. So which is it?"

Will tilts his head, and Hannibal releases his arms, and straightens in turn. His wings flex, a hint of his power and strength that is instinctive, that he is not able to control, and he sees Will's eyes flash in recognition of the gesture, his chin lifting, upper lip twitching in the beginning of a snarl.

"Are you the Devil, or are you not?"

For a long moment, Will simply stares at him. Calculating, assessing, though Hannibal cannot be sure what it is, exactly, he's looking for. His lips thin out, his nostrils flare, and he rolls his shoulders, eyes cast towards his discarded shirt on the bed. He must feel so vulnerable, with so much of his skin exposed.

Hannibal allows himself to deflate, and pulls his wings back into his body, hiding them from sight. He goes to the bed and picks up Will's shirt, handing it to him, and Will takes it with a grateful huff, shrugging it back on and pulling it down to settle comfortably on him once again.

He makes another quiet sound of thanks, and runs his hands through his hair. His fingers twitch in that familiar gesture he makes when he wants a cigarette.

"My…perception of myself comes in waves," he says, so quietly Hannibal can hardly hear him. He steps closer, so that he is able, and Will lifts his chin again, sighs heavily through his nose. "You hear such terrible stories about what I am. The accuser, the serpent, the Prince of Lies…. I don't feel like a liar. Maybe that's the greatest lie I've ever told."

Hannibal swallows, and reaches, gently cradling Will's wet cheek.

"Will," he murmurs, and Will blinks, and looks to him. "I can't stop you leaving, but I would like you to stay with me."

"Afraid I'll run off and hunt down another wayward soul just because I'm emotional?" Will says, voice flat, but there's no denying the truth in his words. Yes, Hannibal is worried; Will has always been a passionate man, and in the wake of someone like the Devil, passion can have unfortunate consequences.

Hannibal does not say that. He merely watches Will, and sees the exact moment his inner wrath flickers out, fire dulling with surrender. His shoulders drop like a great weight has been set upon them, and he sighs, and nods.

"I'll stay the night," he promises, and Hannibal smiles, and draws him in, wrapping his arms around Will as Will clings to him in turn, nose to his neck and nails digging into the dips on either side of his spine where his wings would be, if he let them back out. "Thank you for showing me."

Hannibal's smile widens, and he turns his head to press a gentle kiss to Will's hair. "Thank you for showing me your scars, Will," he replies, and Will nods, drawing back with another sigh. He rolls his shoulders until they crack, wincing, and goes to sit on the edge of his bed. Hannibal walks to the door, turns off the light and opens the door so the golden light from the hallway flows in, illuminating Will's outline.

They stand in a moment of utter stillness, and silence, before Hannibal gives him a nod, and closes the door behind him. As soon as he is not in the room with Will, his entire body gives a powerful shiver, as if expelling poison from his muscles and veins. His hands flex and stretch, his teeth ache, and it feels suddenly unbearable to keep his wings contained.

He forces himself to, and musters up the fortitude to walk calmly to his own bedroom. He feels jittery, all of a sudden, on-edge, as if something momentous has passed without his noticing it and he is caught in the backdraft and struggling to stay afloat.

Something has happened. He can feel it, in the thrum of his aching house and the groan of the wind outside, in the sight of the trees swaying and the dark storm clouds rolling in. There has been some great shift in the Earth's course, and it troubles him greatly for the simple reason that he cannot help feeling he was, somehow, the catalyst behind it.


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal stirs at the scent of eggs and thick ham steak, and rolls onto his side as his bedroom door opens, revealing Will with a tray in his hands. He is soft edged with sleep, his hair fluffy and set in a wild halo around his face, his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them as he steps over the threshold and toes the door mostly closed behind him.

"I made breakfast," he murmurs, and Hannibal sits up, wiping a hand over his face as Will approaches him. The tray he's holding has legs, so that it can be braced over a person's lap, and Hannibal moves so that Will is able to set it down across his knees. Will climbs into bed beside him like he's been doing it all his life, letting Hannibal admire the pink, glistening slice of meat and the yellowish scrambled eggs splayed out like an offering on the plate. Will has brought a fork and knife wrapped in a paper napkin, and at the corner of the tray sits a mug of coffee and a glass of water.

"Thank you, Will," Hannibal replies, surprised but delighted by Will's attempt to provide. He pictures Will rising early – very early, for it is barely dawn outside – and navigating Hannibal's kitchen while he slept, hesitant yet capable enough at feeding himself to make breakfast for Hannibal.

Will's lips twitch in a happy smile, and he settles on the bed with a sigh, knees drawn up and toes digging into the edges of the blankets to keep them warm as he settles against the pillows, watching Hannibal as he begins to eat.

The eggs are crisp with salt, the ham steak positively brimming with juice as Hannibal eats, more than happy to accept Will's offering of food. He notes, absently, that the meat did come from an animal, not a person. Perhaps Will did not feel like he could touch the organs himself, or he was just unsure of the safe way to cook such things, but Hannibal doesn't mind. It's delicious for its simplicity, and for the fact that Will went out of his way to make it for him.

Will sighs, after the meal is almost finished, and Hannibal settles with the mug cradled in both hands, sipping at his coffee. Will put a trace amount of milk in it, and a little bit of sugar to make it sweet.

"Did you mean it?" Will asks, and Hannibal looks to him. "About me staying here. With you. Did you mean it?"

"I always have," Hannibal replies. "My home is open to you, Will, for whatever you need."

Will nods, pressing his lips together. He sighs through his nose and looks down at his hands, digging his thumbnail against the cuticle of his middle finger. There's dirt around the nailbed, but no blood. His next words, when they come, are hesitant;

"You felt it too, didn't you?" he murmurs. "Last night. Something happened."

Hannibal's stomach tenses, gives a little cold flare of anxious anticipation. He swallows, and sets the coffee mug down, taking up the tray and placing it on the floor so it is not inadvertently jostled. He straightens, and looks at Will again.

"I did," he admits. Will's eyes flash, that same darkness curling like a large snake in his gaze, but he doesn't let it peer out; beats it back so that it goes to sleep. "I have no idea what caused it, but I felt it all the same."

"I know," Will says, darts his eyes to the side to peer at Hannibal, almost coy, before he looks at his hands again. "An alliance between the Devil and an angel isn't exactly commonplace."

"Is that what you'd call our friendship?" Hannibal asks, head tilted. "An alliance?"

"Should I call it something else?" Will says, a hard edge in his voice that promises, that begs Hannibal to contradict him. But what could he possibly call it? Friendship, yes, Will is his friend, Hannibal would never deny that. Will is his patient, his friend, his companion, the only person in the world who knows exactly what kind of trials and tribulations come with the territory of being an angel on Earth.

"I feel…" Will's fingers flex, his jaw tightens for a moment, the lines around his eyes grow sharper as he winces. "I feel a strange compulsion whenever I'm with you. I don't know what to call it." Hannibal's head tilts. "Part of me thinks it's just because you understand me, more than anyone else could. Another part wants to say it's just relief and therefore a desire to attach myself to you, out of some reckless belief that shared experience means we should move through this world together."

"It is the same bond forged between soldiers, brothers in arms," Hannibal replies, "but that sounds like an obsessive kind of regard, Will." He does not say it to reprimand, isn't even sure he means it as such. Will's trust and meek surrender is an enticing thing; his willingness to submit to Hannibal's touch, his company, his counsel is thoroughly tempting. Something far too easy to take advantage of.

Will huffs. "Are angels not creatures of obsession?" he replies. "All of them sing God's praises every minute of every day. When sent to Earth, they are sent for a single purpose and given nothing but the overwhelming drive to see that task completed. Even the Devil, in all the lore, is driven to corrupt and seek vengeance for being cast down."

"It is a cruel trick, to have painted the Devil as someone you can only be friends with through means of corruption," Hannibal replies gently. "I have no task on this Earth, Will – if I did, I have forgotten it, and perhaps God, in answer, has forgotten me. But Their sins make mine seem paltry in comparison. Yours, too, if you choose to believe it."

Will nods, his eyes bright and glacially blue, gunmetal grey behind the lens. If Hannibal didn't know any better, he would say it's the color of grace making them shine so.

"So if we turn away from our tasks, break our roles and throw out the script, what is there left to do?"

Hannibal sighs, for he does not have the answer to that. "I suppose," he begins, careful and slow, "we can do whatever we want. Free will and all that."

"Free will," Will repeats, his voice soft and sounding like it's coming from far away. "Isn't that what started this whole ugly business?"

Hannibal laughs, and the sound seems to startle Will. His vision clears and narrows to the here and now, and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, finally turning to meet Hannibal's eyes. He leans in, and Hannibal remains still, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Will rests his temple on Hannibal's shoulder, and sighs heavily.

His fingers curl. "Did you still want some help grooming your wings?" he asks, and Hannibal can tell how much he wants to touch them again, to see them again. It must be the cruelest kind of consolation, to be able to remember what something feels like but forever lack the ability to have that feeling again.

He nods, and kisses Will's hair. "I'd like that Will, thank you," he replies, and Will nods, and straightens so that Hannibal can peel the blankets and sheets back. He can manifest his wings through his clothes, and usually he does so, but grooming can turn into a messy business and he doesn't want to get down and oil all over his shirt, so he pulls it off, baring his chest.

Will makes no sound, but Hannibal can feel his eyes on him, ravenous and fiercely focused. He turns so he can rest his head on a pillow, on his belly, and lets his shoulders and his spine relax, unfurling his wings with another soft flutter. Will makes a sound, then, not quite a gasp, but very soft, colored in a mix of relief and longing. He moves so that he is kneeling by Hannibal's hip, below his wing, and Hannibal turns his head so he can see Will.

Will's hands are warm, his grip gentle as he coaxes Hannibal's wing over his thighs, wrist joint resting just past his knee. He straightens a few of the smaller feathers almost absently – as he goes, some will be shed, others removed by force if they refuse to fall into line. It is not unlike pruning a fighting army to ensure the best cohesive force.

His first passes are broad, full-handed as he familiarizes himself with the natural curve of Hannibal's wing. Every angel is different, with factors like assignment, purpose, and the type of bird that stole their design when God created Their flying creatures. Even between them, Hannibal only has two wings, whereas Will's scars suggest he once had four. Coarseness of feathers and how they align is as varied as hair on a human, and Hannibal sighs, letting himself relax as Will carefully navigates his wing, learning its unique shape and the way his feathers are more inclined to rest.

It feels like being petted, at first, no more intimate or stimulating than a light massage. Hannibal tucks his other wing close to him, trapping in warmth so he doesn't get cold and letting it rest, and he sees Will's mouth curl in a happy smile, pleased to see him so relaxed.

"You've got a predator's shape," he murmurs, his voice taking on that absent, faraway tone again, as if he's not aware he's speaking. "Built for speed. Stealth attacks, like a falcon."

Hannibal hums, knowing this. "Do you remember what yours were like?" he asks, for he cannot conjure a memory of Will as he was, before the Fall. Most angels can't remember a time before the time that is now.

Will's brow creases in thought, and he presses his lips together, his hands curling so that he's petting through Hannibal's feathers with more direct intention, straightening out the smaller ones at the base of his wing, correcting any that are bent out of place. "No," he admits, finally, after another prolonged silence. "I remember how heavy they were. I know the little ones were metallic, like blades." He huffs a small laugh. "I feel like I can remember cutting myself on them when I was still young."

Hannibal smiles, imagining Will as a fledgling, wings all akimbo and fluttering every direction as he learned to control them. It is strange to remember Will as a child – God, when They were still making angels, brought them into the Heavens fully-formed when his memory begins. Evolution and adaptation, it seems, was to be something only for Their mortal creations.

Will hums again, one hand staying on the outside of Hannibal's wing, the other sliding underneath, where the feathers are much softer and more thickly packed, downier to allow him to use them for warmth. Still strong, undeniably, but the feathers are smaller and, he knows, feel more like fur when they get close to his back.

Will lets out another quiet noise, his eyes flashing with something akin to envy before he, once again, mercilessly beats the emotion back. His fingers flex in Hannibal's feathers and Hannibal's chest rumbles in pleasure, his shoulders tensing as Will finds a subtle knot in his feathers and works it free, smoothing them back into place. A few come loose, and Will wipes his hand absently on his jeans before returning to his task.

"I had a dream last night," Will tells him. Hannibal hums in acknowledgement. "I dreamed that I took your wings. Or maybe you offered them to me, I can't be sure." His voice grows quiet, feverish and shaky, and Hannibal opens his eyes fully to look at him. He is not afraid, for he knows Will would never hurt him, nor make good on what his dream suggested was possible, but there's no denying the way Will eyes his wing, hungry, famished. "Between us there was a great pool of blood, spreading like the sea. It touched our feet, then our knees, and kept rising, threatening to drown us both."

He swallows. "You couldn't fly. There was blood in your mouth. You were smiling."

"Was it my blood that drowned us?" Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head. "No," he murmurs, and smiles sharply. "It was that of the Red Dragon – the one from Revelations. He had tried to kill us and we overcame him. It was his blood. I can…"

He pauses, and swallows again. "I remember the heat of him. The way his blood tasted in my mouth. When I woke, I was surprised that I couldn't still taste it."

His eyes are dark, lost in the dream, and Hannibal reaches out and rests his hand on Will's thigh. The touch seems to startle him, for he jerks and tugs at Hannibal's feathers, making him wince. Will is quick to soothe, letting out a quiet sound of apology and leaning down to kiss the wrinkle in the feathers his tight grip caused.

Then, the hand below Hannibal's wing slides in, searching. Hannibal closes his eyes as Will's fingers brush lightly over his oil gland, settled in the thickest part of his feathers just shy of the base, already leaking. He lets out a quiet, purring sound, arching his wing just a little to allow Will better access to it, gasping as Will traps it between his fingers, and kneads at it until it begins to produce oil more readily. So long denied a touch, for Hannibal cannot reach it himself, it bursts and floods Will's palm with oil, slicking down to his wrist, and Will gasps, nuzzling his feathers as he coats his fingers in the oil and begins to spread them wide, working the grease from his feathers and bringing them back to their usual shine.

His other hand tucks below, gathering more oil and combings his fingers through Hannibal's wing like he might pet the knotted pelt of a dog. His breathing has picked up, his own shoulders tense and rising like he wants to unfurl his wings as well and settle them over Hannibal's. It's an instinct Hannibal knows well, to cover someone with his wings, though he can say he has only felt the urge to do so with a few people in his life.

It is an implicitly protective and possessive desire, to hold someone in his wings, to mark them with his oil. Hannibal cannot deny it pleases him to think of Will's hands, his arms, even his face being coated with his oil, shining on his skin.

Will's hands spread out wide, combing the oil through the underside of his wing, and now it doesn't feel like a massage at all – it holds heat, a fierce longing that clogs his throat and tics up the pace of his heart. When Will's fingers return to his oil gland, seeking more, Hannibal cannot stop the loud, rough noise that escapes him.

Will's hands go still. "Am I hurting you?" he asks, but in a way that tells Hannibal he knows he isn't. Will might remember how it feels, or he might just be as attuned to Hannibal's reactions as Hannibal is so doggedly paying attention to his.

He shakes his head, breathes out harshly, and tries to ignore the coil of heat gathering in his stomach as Will's exhale skates along his primaries. "No, Will, I'm alright."

Will nods against his wing, and slides his hands over the topmost edge of them, smoothing them down where they have begun to ruffle. "I can do the other one now," he says, and Hannibal nods, moving to the center of the bed so Will has room to work on the second one. The press of the mattress to his belly sends another spark of heat up Hannibal's spine, that only grows worse when, after a second of hesitation, Will moves, and straddles his thighs.

It's immediately apparent that Will is just as affected by this as Hannibal is, and Will's grip is anything but hesitant as he curls one hand beneath Hannibal's other wing, seeking his leaking gland, and the second settles, heavy and strong, on the nape of his neck. His fingers are wet, his palm slick, and Hannibal lets out another rough sound as he gives a single, light squeeze, and his other hand works at the gland until it, too, bursts and floods oil into his palm.

Will growls, and leans down, spreading Hannibal's oil down his spine and kissing his flushed, warm nape. He doesn't roll his hips, does not move in any way to imply force or need, merely lets Hannibal lie there and know that he's being affected at all.

The hand in his wing begins its work, steady and unrelenting as he drags his fingers through the thick feathers like he would down Hannibal's back, nails scratching and working feathers back into place, relentless.

Will presses his nose to Hannibal's hair and breathes in, ragged and deep. He works his free hand below Hannibal's chest and Hannibal cannot help meeting him, gripping his hand tightly as it settles below his pounding heart. "I see color in you, now," he murmurs, and Hannibal shivers, turning his head as Will nuzzles him. "What does it say about me that my first act of free will was to feed you, and groom you, and touch you like this?"

"You have always had a powerful urge to protect, and care for people," Hannibal replies. Will hums. "What color do you see?"

Will smiles, wide enough his teeth graze below Hannibal's ear. "Red," he whispers, low and loud. "Loyalty. Passion." He falls silent, and kisses Hannibal's hair again. Rolls his hips, just once, and shivers when Hannibal's thighs subtly spread, giving him a furrow to rut into. Will's hands flex on him, powerful and strong. "Purple. …White."

That one seems to surprise him, but he doesn't withdraw.

"White," he breathes again, and chokes on a noise like a sob. " _Fuck_ , Hannibal."

With only one hand, Will must work much more slowly on his second wing, but what he lacks in speed he makes up for in determined attention, not a single feather left uncoated by oil or discarded out of place.

Hannibal doesn't know the significance of such colors, beyond whatever humans have attributed to them. Purple is the color of royalty, of riches and power. White; innocence, purity. Hannibal is sure he is neither of those things, and so wonders what a stain of white upon a soul must look like to someone with Will's sight. He wants to ask, but then Will's hand goes back to his oil gland and works out another thick river of oil, and he chokes on a snarling cry.

"I know," Will murmurs to him. His hand is shaking within Hannibal's, gripping fiercely enough it would hurt a mortal man. "I know, _fuck_ , do you -?"

His hand withdraws from Hannibal's wing, and he rises to his knees, and Hannibal gasps at the sudden lack of pressure between his thighs. Will's oil-slick hand slides beneath his stomach, down as Will kisses and mouths at his neck, and comes to a stop just above the waistband of his pajama pants.

His fingers curl, and form a fist. He sighs, but does not go further.

He kisses Hannibal's hair again, nuzzles his warm, flushed skin, and rises from him, waiting until Hannibal moves his wing and he can settle at his side, his hands withdrawing. Hannibal forces himself to calm, tries to steady his racing heart and panting breaths, and pulls his wings back into his body, pushing his hands beneath him so he can lift to his elbows.

He looks at Will, finds him similarly flushed, his eyes black, nostrils flared wide as he, too, tries to calm his breathing. Will looks guilty, and cannot meet his eyes. His hands smear together, shining with Hannibal's oil, and he clears his throat.

"Do they feel better?" he rasps.

Hannibal nods, and reaches for him. Will doesn't flinch, but he also makes no move to meet him, and shivers when Hannibal rests his shaking hand on Will's thigh. There's an undeniable, obscene bulge in his jeans, giving away his obvious desire, but he makes no move to address it. Maybe he doesn't want to, though Hannibal is not certain of the reason why – he would not have stopped Will, if Will decided to keep going.

Maybe that's the point.

Will's eyes settle on his chest, shining brightly with unshed tears. He curses to himself, rubs a hand over his face, and over his mouth, smearing the oil over his face. An unconscious move, for certain, but he is marking himself with Hannibal's oil and Hannibal knows some part of him realizes what he's doing.

Hannibal wants to ask, but senses any attempt will simply earn him a barbed, prickly answer. So instead he says; "What does white mean, Will?"

Will swallows, his eyes moving from Hannibal, to the door. Like he wants to run. Hannibal cannot let him run. "Love," he confesses, and Hannibal blinks at him. "The uncorruptible, purest kind. I can't -." He grits his teeth, shakes his head sharply. "I can't."

Hannibal swallows, and pushes himself to his knees. Will's eyes snap to him, helplessly raking down his bare, reddened chest, his own tented clothes, his thighs, his knees, back up. His shoulders curl in, he hunches, a strangely nervous disposition coming over him, as if he thinks Hannibal will strike him down for his perversion, his attempt to corrupt.

Hannibal smiles at him, and crawls until he is between Will's feet, and cups his face. Will's shoulders drop with resignation, he sighs, and bows his head.

"I should leave," he murmurs.

"You'll do no such thing," Hannibal replies, and Will swallows, and nods in acceptance. Hannibal touches his chin, makes him lift his face, and smiles again, pulling Will upright. His head tilts. "If what you say is true, and you see that love in me, then what are you afraid of?"

"I shouldn't -." Will presses his lips together, shakes his head. "I can't."

Hannibal hums, and rests their foreheads together. "I can," he replies, and kisses Will. At once it turns passionate, the heat in Hannibal's spine flaring out like another pair of wings, and Will growls against his mouth, his hands sliding to Hannibal's bare shoulders and digging in tightly, slick with oil, and Hannibal thinks, impossible though it is, that he can taste blood on Will's tongue.

Far away, though not far enough for comfort, a great red beast stirs in the darkness, and opens its eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written the next chapter already, I just decided to split it. It'll be going up as soon as I'm finished proofreading. Please note the new rating and tags!

Will can remember, in moments that feel more like dreams, the feeling of his wings being torn from his back. Can remember a long, long fall, away from the bright light of his father and brothers, and a vicious crash that would have smeared him upon the Earth's surface like a meteor if not for what he was.

Kissing Hannibal feels like falling, and he can't close his eyes, refuses to waste any moment when he cannot see the roiling mesh of color bleeding out from Hannibal's chest. Purple, where his wings sit in his back, red behind his eyes and simmering in his skull like bubbling water. And that white – that beautiful, pale glow that Will would think was something holy, except it can't possibly be holy if he's the one who made it happen.

He stifles a weak noise against Hannibal's mouth, dragging his hands up Hannibal's bare back, clawing at where his wings will flare out when he lets them. He wants to see them again, wants to touch and groom them until they are as beautiful as Hannibal's love for him. He has never seen that color in a mortal man, seen only flickers of it with new mothers or grieving children when they part from their parents and decide, in that moment, to memorialize their goodness.

Hannibal kisses him in the same way fire would burn him, makes Will shiver and whine against his lips, the slow-creeping tide of arousal rearing its head in his chest. He would not dare touch Hannibal like that, or take advantage of his weakness when Will's hands were in his wings, but they are not in his wings now, and still Hannibal kisses him like he would rather do nothing else.

Hannibal pulls back, the reddish hue of his iris almost completely overtaken by his wide pupil. His skin shines with his oil, the flush on his cheeks is like fresh blood, mingling with the sheen of sweat gathering below his hairline, at the small of his back. He meets Hannibal's feverish gaze, feels both terribly fragile and powerful under the weight of it, both Atlas and Icarus, Persephone and Echo.

Hannibal nudges their noses together, kisses wet and warm along his cheek, and flattens his hands on Will's shoulders, dragging down the back of them to where his scars begin. Hannibal stiffens, as the shrill ring of his phone sounds out, and he lifts his head and glares over at the little device as the screen flashes and it vibrates across his bedside table.

"Jack is calling," he says, and Will has to smile at how impatient and aggravated he sounds.

"Ignore it," he replies.

Hannibal smiles at him, tucks a curl of Will's hair behind his ear. "He's likely calling me because he cannot reach you," he replies. "If I don't answer, he may be compelled to pay us a visit."

Will huffs. Jack is as determined and dogged as a starving animal. But he nods, and releases Hannibal, sighing when Hannibal rises from his thighs and shifts to the other side of the bed. He reaches for his phone and, as he answers, Will settles on his side, absently petting over his own wrists, admiring the slick of Hannibal's oil coating his skin.

"Agent Crawford," Hannibal greets. "Good morning."

Will has good hearing, but even so he cannot make out what Jack is saying, only the low cadence of his voice as he speaks through the phone. Hannibal settles on his heels, and reaches out to gently cover one of Will's hands with his own. Will smiles, for when he does it, the flare of white in his chest grows larger and more fierce, and he laces their fingers together.

"Well, certainly," Hannibal says coolly. "Will paid me a visit last night. He stayed in my guest room the entire time, and now we're having breakfast."

Will frowns, and then sighs in understanding. Jack must have found the angel-maker this morning. He knows Hannibal will have done his best to cover their tracks, so there's no reason to believe Will was there, or in any way involved, except for the fact that this case clearly made him so angry.

"I'd say he arrived around seven," Hannibal says after a small stretch of quiet. Will squeezes his hand – seven would mean he definitely couldn't have been there when Elliot Buddish died. Even when he showed up, the man was already strung up and bleeding to death. Despite what Hannibal might think, Will truly had no part to play in the manner of his death.

"I think I would have heard if he left during the night, but you are more than welcome to interview my neighbors to confirm if they saw anything untoward." Hannibal's voice has an edge to it now, a protective flare of glistening teal spreading out from behind his eyes, down to his throat. Coating his tongue.

He is quiet, for another moment, and then he murmurs, "Oh."

His eyes meet Will's, and he presses his lips together. Will tilts his head and Hannibal gives his hand another reassuring squeeze. "Of course. We'll be more than happy to meet you at your office this afternoon."

He hears Jack's grunt of acknowledgement, and then Hannibal ends the call, and sets his phone down. "That didn't sound good," Will murmurs.

Hannibal sighs. "It seems one trial ends just for another to begin," he says with a nod, and turns back to Will, settling on his heels as Will sits up. Hannibal, it seems, is in no hurry to stymy his tactile nature, and gently rubs his hands up Will's arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. Will closes his eyes, lets his neck go limp, and rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder. "There was another murder, this one further North. A family was shot to death, the woman assaulted post-mortem." He pauses, and finishes with; "Shards of glass were placed over her eyes."

Will stiffens, and remembers a similar killing to that, years ago. He lifts his head and meets Hannibal's eyes. "He's back," he whispers.

Hannibal nods, looking troubled. "Likely why Jack felt the need to call us."

Will remembers that family, years ago. The Marlowes. Remembers lecturing on their brutal murder. Remembers the picture of Missus Marlowe with mirror shards on her eyes; _See me, I want you to see me_. A shudder runs down his spine.

He presses his lips together and shakes his head, rubbing his oil-slick hand over his face. Hannibal pets him, gently nuzzling his hair, and Will wants to just sink back into the bed and go to sleep. He wants to dream of oil and feathers, not blood and broken glass. He wants to keep touching Hannibal until time gives up and leaves them be.

"I guess we should shower," he murmurs. "I need to go feed my dogs, and then meet Jack."

Hannibal nods, though makes no move to release him. "Would you like some company?"

Will arches a brow. "In the shower?"

Hannibal laughs. "Not what I meant, but I wouldn't say 'No', either." Will smiles, but they both sober at the same time. "I meant for the rest of it. If you'd like."

"I would," Will replies before he can stop himself, because he doesn't want to be alone. Not now, not after everything Hannibal has shown him, not after feeling his wings under his hands, hearing how Hannibal's breath catches and how he can be brought to a shaking mess beneath Will's touch. Not now that he can see the beautiful glow of love in Hannibal's chest. He would happily go blind, if he could still see that.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses his forehead. Hesitates, but then overcomes that hesitation, and kisses Will's lips in a chaste brush. Will lets out another weak, wanting sound, clinging to him even when Hannibal pulls away, until his arms can't reach. His wings would be able to – he would be able to cocoon Hannibal and force him to stay, if he still had them.

He sighs, and climbs out of bed, careful not to knock the tray. "For efficiency's sake, we'll shower separately," he says, and Hannibal concedes to that with a gracious nod. Will runs a hand through his hair, already mourning the moment when Hannibal's slick will no longer stain and scent-mark his skin, and leaves the room.

 

 

They take Hannibal's car, and Will winces and pets the driver-side door in sympathy as the car groans and bulges around their shared existence. It seems worse today, somehow, maybe because of the changes in the world, maybe because of the changes between themselves. Hannibal moves with a strange fullness, lethargic, like it's taking all his self-control to keep his wings contained in his own body. Or maybe because he doesn't know how to handle the surge of color staining his soul. Either way, the only relief Will can offer is rolling all the windows down, and Hannibal drives him to his house in Wolf Trap.

Will feeds his dogs and lets them out, sitting on the porch step with Hannibal beside him. Hannibal's eyes lift to the cross on the threshold, lips quirked in an amused smile. Will's hound is pacing the perimeter as she always does, her bass growl a soft counterpoint to the whisper of the wind through the grass and the quiet promise of the oncoming cold front.

"My first memory is of snow," Will murmurs, his breath misting. He doesn't feel the cold, not really, with Hannibal so warm beside him. "I remember watching it fall, remember being told that every flake was unique in its own way, that no cluster is exactly the same."

"Snowflakes and stars share that uniqueness," Hannibal replies. "So do humans."

"Unique in their lack of uniqueness," Will says with a smile.

"There's something to be said for uniformity," Hannibal says. "Even though each flake is different, when joined together they create a single blanket of uniform whiteness, of cold." Will nods absently, scratching at his neck. His throat feels itchy, a tickle at the back of it. He should really try to quit smoking again.

"I think I could do with a change of scenery," he says. "To just…go somewhere. Somewhere cold."

In his periphery, he sees Hannibal tilt his head. "I own a cabin, north of here, at the tip of the bay," he says, and Will turns his head to look at him. He's staring outward, watching Will's hound pace and prowl around the trees. "Weather reports have told me it's already begun to succumb to frost."

He turns, and smiles at Will. "Perhaps you'd like to come up with me. I'll admit it's not as drastic a change of scenery as, say, Canada, or anywhere else covered in snow, but it's far enough away from here to create the illusion of distance and separation."

Will hums, giving the idea serious consideration. "For how long?" he asks.

He knows Hannibal is being completely serious when he says, "As long as you'd like."

"Forever?" Will says, smiling.

"And a day, if it suits you."

Will's smile widens, and he closes his eyes as he hears Hannibal's wings unfurl, the one closest to him settling over his shoulders. He turns his head and buries his face in the strong feathers covering the wing joint, noting that they do look in far better shape; not the weathered grey of abandoned stone, but glistening like new marble.

A gust of wind passes across the field, but Will doesn't feel it under the protective cover of Hannibal's wing. He opens his eyes and gazes out to the letterbox, to the dark shadow of his hound. He frowns, and pushes himself to his feet. Hannibal rises behind him, sheathing his wings, and follows Will out to the letterbox.

Will opens it, fishing through the clump of bills and other junk mail until he finds another thin, plain card. It's wreathed in gold, and unlike the others, is not purely white. The name upon it is written in black ink, barely discernable amidst the dark, blood-red of the card stock.

Will frowns down at it, and hands it to Hannibal when he reaches for it. "It's not usually red," he murmurs.

Hannibal meets his eyes, and then looks down to read the name. He huffs. "I didn't fancy God for a calligrapher."

"They have a certain aesthetic," Will replies with a smile. "Something They passed down to Their children, I think."

Hannibal is smiling, but it's faint as he stares at the name. "The Great Red Dragon," he murmurs, and his brows lower, pulling together in an uncharacteristically deep frown. He looks to Will. "Are your clues always this helpful?"

"Usually it's an actual name," Will replies with a shake of his head. A strange anxiousness coils in his chest, because he remembers his dream, remembers dueling with such a beast that bore the same name. He has no gift of prophecy, merely his sight, but he doesn't want to think of any situation that loses Hannibal his wings, puts so much blood on the ground.

Hannibal sighs through his nose. "Does God normally give you irrelevant names?" he asks. "That is, any from cases Jack hasn't given you?"

Will knows what he's really asking. He shakes his head.

"Well," Hannibal says, and folds the card, pocketing it. "I suppose we'd best pay Agent Crawford a visit as soon as possible."

Will nods. He clicks his tongue, walking back to the house to seal his pack inside it, though he only closes the door most of the way, and doesn't lock the screen. He feels, somehow, that he will not return here for some time. They get back into Hannibal's car, and as he drives away to a chorus of creaking metal and churning gears, Will sees his hound following in the passenger side mirror.

 

 

He doesn't like it in Quantico. The building is vast enough and buried under so much Earth that it doesn't have room to expand when he enters it, and as a result he feels the walls vibrate and tense upon his entry. Hannibal doesn't make it better; when they enter the building and head towards Jack's office, Will feels every steel beam and every doorframe snarl at him, like a dog backed into a corner. He shivers, rolling his sore shoulders, and leads the way to Jack's office.

Jack is inside, and greets them with a nod. His eyes track over Will, dark with new suspicion – probably trying to figure out just from looking at him if he had anything to do with Elliot Buddish's fate. Will refuses to give anything away, hunches in and lowers his eyes in the way he used to before they started working together. He wishes he'd brought his glasses, because the blackened curl of suspicion and anger in Jack is distracting.

"Hello, Jack," Hannibal greets for him, saving him the effort of speaking. He closes the door behind them and they settle in the chairs on the guest side of Jack's desk. "Apologies if we kept you waiting."

"It's fine," Jack says. Straight and to the point as ever – Will has always appreciated that about him. He hands Will a file and Will takes it, opening it on his lap. "The Jacobi family. Husband, wife, two boys. The husband's throat was cut, the boys shot once, the wife shot in the chest and tortured to death."

"Tortured," Will repeats with a low growl. "That's one way to put it." He flips to her picture, stomach turning at the sight of her mirror-shard eyes gazing back at him from her pale face. Beneath her photo are bullet-pointed notes telling him what he did to her; post-mortem assault, the rest done before her death. Broken fingernails with DNA lodged beneath. Something hard and sharp shoved down her windpipe to silence her screams.

He shudders. "His precision with a ranged weapon suggests military background," he forces himself to say.

Jack nods. "Or private work," he replies.

"He was more personal with the husband this time," Will adds. "Sliced his neck. Mister Marlowe had his carotid and jugular severed from a bullet."

Jack's head tilts. "Right," he says, slowly, and Will lifts his eyes. He doesn't need his gift to see that Jack doesn't like how Will can remember the details so vividly.

"I lecture on it," Will explains. Jack's expression does not clear, but he presses his lips together and nods. Will looks back down at the file, and then to Hannibal, and he hands it over. Hannibal takes it from him, and sits forward so he can lay it open on Jack's desk, his lips pursed and turned down at the corners as he reads the coroner's report.

"When was the last murder like this?" Hannibal asks.

"Five years ago," Will replies.

"That's one Hell of a cooling off period," Jack notes, "but given how quickly and easily he did this, I think it's safe to say he probably already has another target in mind."

Will nods. Killers that wait five years for their second kill are rarely so patient the third time around. "He's got a taste for it, now," he murmurs. "He's figured out what he likes." Unlike Missus Marlowe, Missus Jacobi had been assaulted multiple times.

"Certainly a troubled individual," Hannibal agrees, and looks at Jack. "Do you have any leads?"

"Nothing," Jack replies with a disgruntled huff. "He disabled the alarm like with the Marlowes, killed the male victims within minutes of each other. Took his time with the wife."

Will shudders. He ate only a little food that morning, but feels a knot building in his stomach, that threatens to send it all back up. He doesn't want to look, he doesn't want that mindset inside his skull. He doesn't want to know what it's like inside the Great Red Dragon's head.

Hannibal's eyes meet his, and it looks like he wants to wrap Will in his wings all over again, shield him and hide him from the sight. But they can't – this is Will's duty, his penance, his punishment, whatever you want to call it. God gave him this sight so that he could see.

"What do you make of it, Will?"

Will sucks in a breath through his teeth, winces, and makes himself look at Missus Jacobi's staring eyes. "He wants her to see him," he murmurs. "As he truly is – the way he sees himself. He gives her the power of sight, transforms her into something worthy of him that he can take for himself. Or…." He swallows. "Or for someone else."

"Like a sacrifice?"

"An offering," Will murmurs. "Baring the most basic parts of her for that creature to consume."

His fingers curl, when he looks at her photograph. His nails feel like claws, his teeth too sharp in his mouth. His shoulders ache terribly, like there's something growing through them, something he wants to desperately rip and claw at to let it loose. He wants to shed his skin, crack his jaws apart, tear out his eyes so he can't see anymore.

He turns away, tense with revulsion, and hears Hannibal close the file with an audible slap.

He pushes himself to his feet, and Hannibal rises behind him. "Give us a moment," he says, and takes Will by the shoulder, leading him out of the room, past the snarling walls and narrowed-eyed doors, and into the bathrooms down the hall. It's not any better in here, but it's bright-lit and startling with its cleanliness, and Will breathes in heavily, runs both hands through his hair, gives his head a fierce shake like a dog trying to snap an animal's neck.

Hannibal embraces him, wrapping his arms tight around Will and forcing Will to put his nose to Hannibal's neck. He breathes in deeply, staring through skin, through clothes, to the white light of Hannibal's love, the purple halo of loyalty, as it rushes through his hands and his heart and stains the inside of Will's mouth.

"I can't do this," Will confesses, clawing at his hair, the nape of his neck. Hannibal's breath is warm and steady at his ear, his pulse measured and even beneath his skin. Will wants that calm, that reassuring steadiness. "I don't want to look. I don't want him in my head."

Hannibal shushes him, one hand sliding into Will's hair, cupping the base of his skull. He brushes his lips over Will's cheek, and Will swallows back a weak whimper as Hannibal's other arm tightens around him, rubs gently down his back in a soothing touch.

It takes Will longer than he'd care to admit to feel calm again. He breathes out, lets his hands fall and slides them under the halves of Hannibal's coat, up his back where his wings would be. He buries his face in Hannibal's neck and shivers when he feels Hannibal make another quiet, soothing sound.

"What did it feel like?" Hannibal whispers.

Will shivers again. "Power," he says. "Rage."

"Triumphing over death is a powerful thing," Hannibal tells him. "But the rage…at his victim?"

Will shakes his head. "No," he admits. "It felt…impotent. Anger over something he couldn't control, couldn't stop." His fingers flex on Hannibal's back, dragging down, soaking in his heat and strength. Hannibal hums in answer. "There's something in his head that wants, selfishly, to devour and destroy. He wants everyone to see it."

Hannibal is quiet, for a moment, and then he says, carefully as though worrying over causing offense; "I wonder if that sounds quite close to home."

Will frowns, though he can't deny it, and he pulls back to meet Hannibal's eyes. They let go of each other, but remain standing close. "I don't want to destroy," he murmurs.

"Yes you do," Hannibal says. "All angels have that power, that gift. Yours were taken from you, and I don't think it's too far off base to say that, given the chance, you would." His head tilts. "You almost did, and would have, had I not stopped you."

"Buddish again?" Will hisses. "That was different."

Hannibal's expression is placid, but somehow sad. "How?"

"Because…" Will sucks in a breath, shakes his head. "Because it was. He was trying to cheat the system. He wasn't playing by the _rules_."

"Neither are we," Hannibal reminds him. "Are we allowed to be the exceptions? What of the Dragon?"

Will glares at him, searching for any kind of weakness, any giveaway to what Hannibal is thinking, but he finds none. He's still alight, with loyalty and love, and Will blinks, a sudden understanding blooming in him.

Hannibal doesn't care, one way or the other. He will follow wherever Will leads – Will just has to make the decision.

_Are you the Devil, or are you not?_

He presses his lips together. Clenches his jaw. Curls his fingers into fists. "He's taking what rightfully belongs to me," he rasps. Hannibal's head tilts. "Sinners and saints are God's creations. They come to me if their life leads them that way. If the Dragon devours them, they go nowhere."

Hannibal nods, at that, his lips twitching in a smile. "Then tell me, Will; what does the Devil do to those who would claim his throne?"

"He destroys them," Will hisses, and he feels the truth of it. The walls shudder and clench their jaws around him, and in answer, he snarls.

Hannibal's smile widens, and he holds out his hand. Will takes it, their fingers lacing, and he sees another color blossom in Hannibal; a brilliant, pearlescent pink. Anticipation. Eagerness. He shivers when Hannibal kisses his knuckles, and draws him in for another kiss; deeper, tongue between Will's too-sharp teeth, hand settled over the violent thrum of his heart in his throat.

"Will you let me help you?" Hannibal whispers.

Will nods, for he knew the answer before Hannibal even asked. He kisses him again, and tugs him towards the door.

 

 

Will gives Jack the most comprehensive profile he can muster, combining what he observed from the Marlowes' case, and the Jacobis', and he must admit Hannibal was right – there is a certain sinister similarity between his mindset and that of the Dragon's. He wants to destroy, to dominate, to make everyone see just who and what he truly is.

He doesn't know if Jack can tell, but they're dismissed without further comment, and as Hannibal and Will leave Quantico, it sighs in relief like it just received the antidote to a poison. Will's hound is perched on the roof of Hannibal's car, panting at the two of them, flies buzzing around her ears.

Will knows Hannibal can see her, and grins when he sees Hannibal's lips turn down in a small frown, probably thinking about her claws leaving scratches on his paint job. She jumps down as they approach, and Will kneels, cupping her rotting and dripping jaw.

He looks up at Hannibal, and sighs through his nose. "Shall we go slay a dragon?"

Hannibal smiles, and nods.

Will turns back to his hound. "Lead us to the Great Red Dragon," he commands her, and she snarls, snapping her teeth together. Will stands, wiping his hand clean, and circles to the passenger side of Hannibal's car, climbing in. Hannibal follows suit on the driver's side, and Will rolls down all the windows and lights a cigarette with the tip of his finger.

Hannibal frowns at him, and Will blows out his first puff of smoke. "I'll quit when he's dead," he promises with a wide smile. "Hand to God."

Hannibal huffs, but doesn't answer, his eyes turning out to land on the shape of Will's hound, who has taken a spot at the turnoff to the main road, by the guard station. She looks back at them and snaps her jaws impatiently, hackles rising, and Hannibal pulls out of the spot and drives up to the exit. She takes off towards the road, keeping pace easily as Hannibal merges with the highway, heading North.

 

 

Will smokes, and then he dozes during the drive, lulled to sleep by the rush of air around them and the soft music coming through Hannibal's radio. He stirs when he hears the sound of the air change from open highway to close-knit trees, and he straightens as the car slows, pulling off the highway and to a single-lane road that dives between the trees, angled in a continuous, gentle slope up the side of a hill.

He looks over at Hannibal, and sees him frowning deeply. "What's wrong?" he murmurs.

Hannibal's eyes flash to him, just for a moment, before he puts them back on the road. "Your hound brought us to my cabin," he says, his voice cautiously flat. Will frowns, and looks ahead as the road parts, just enough that he can see a cabin rising up ahead of them.

His eyes widen, and he straightens in his seat, remaining silent as Hannibal pulls up and parks in the cobblestone driveway by the front door. He scrambles out of the car and rushes around to the side of the cabin, breathless as sea air clogs his lungs, the wind bracing and constant against his face and hands. He looks at the pile of stones flanking the patio, the wide-set rocks making the base, the iron table and set of chairs to one side. The glass doors, making up a wall. The steep drop into the ocean.

"Oh," he breathes.

Hannibal appears beside him, looking alarmed by Will's sudden rush. "What's the matter?"

"This…this place," Will whispers, and runs his hands through his hair. The stone is grey and grouted with white, the clouds hanging heavy and oppressive. "This was in my dream," he breathes, and looks at Hannibal with wide, panicked eyes. "We fought the Dragon here."

Hannibal blinks at him, and looks out to the cliffs. His nostrils flare, and he lifts his chin, his shoulders tense and pulled up as he eyes the dirt tracks leading up to the cabin, barren except the ones his own car left.

"He's not here yet," he murmurs.

Will swallows harshly, stepping back away from the cliffs. "I shouldn't know about this place," he whispers. "I shouldn't have dreamed it up. Hannibal, this is _bad_." Hannibal's hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing, and Will turns to him. "You lose your _wings_."

"The future is not set in stone, Will, it never has been," Hannibal says calmly. How can he be so calm? If Will still had his wings, the idea of losing them would terrify him to his core. Even now, knowing he's not the one at risk, his hands are shaking and it feels like he can't breathe. There's too much salt in the air, it's too cold, he feels like he's freezing to death.

Hannibal wraps an arm around his shoulders, firmly but gently guiding him back around to the door, and letting him inside. Despite the fact that Hannibal clearly hasn't been here for a while, and it's so cold outside, the innards of the cabin are warm and comfortable. Hannibal takes his coat, because some habits never change no matter the scenery, and Will paces back to the wall of windows, staring out.

"Would you like something to drink?" Hannibal asks him. "I keep this place stocked modestly with non-perishables, should the urge to get away for a while ever strike."

Will nods absently, not really registering what he agreed to until Hannibal's reflection interrupts his vision, and he turns to a glass of wine pressed into his hands. He swallows harshly, and debates refusing it altogether, but he takes a sip, flooding his mouth with the overly-sweet red. It's getting dark outside, the setting sun painting the sky the same muted pink as Hannibal's anticipation, which has not faded in the slightest.

Hannibal joins him, standing and staring out. He sips at his wine and says, "How does it happen?"

Will's upper lip twitches, his gaze feels black. "Ambush," he replies.

"Your hound will warn us." Will blinks, and nods to himself. Of course, she goes where he goes – she will not abandon him, just as Hannibal will not abandon him, no matter where his allegiances lie. It feels strange to acknowledge.

He takes another drink, his glass nearing empty, and turns away from the sight of the cliffs and the far-reaching ocean. Hannibal follows him to the large, white leather couch near an open-top grand piano, the instrument shiny, glossy black. The lights paint the air gold, and Will doesn't know if it all feels closer to Heaven or Hell.

They settle on the couch, and Will puts his wine glass down, unwilling to resist the urge to plaster himself to Hannibal's side. Hannibal smiles against his hair, and sets his glass on the side table, before he slings an arm across Will's shoulders and pulls him closer. Will tucks his nose to Hannibal's neck, sighing gently.

"So we just sit and wait?" he murmurs.

Hannibal laughs lightly, dragging his nails along Will's scalp. "I suppose so," he replies. Will huffs.

"We're too exposed down here," he says.

Hannibal's head tilts, cheek to Will's hair. "Would you rather go upstairs, to one of the sealed rooms?" Will nods, and pushes himself to his feet, taking Hannibal's hands and pulling him upright. They leave the wine behind, and head up the stairs. Hannibal goes to the first door, opening it to a bedroom. Will's lips quirk in a smile.

It's set up a lot like his bedroom at his home, with the same teal and off-white color palette, a soft cream carpet lining the large four-poster bed. There's an inset closet, closed, and a door leading to a bathroom, and a fireplace. There's always a fireplace, Will notes with another laugh.

Hannibal closes the door behind them, and turns on the light. It's even softer than in the main room, warm and gentle on Will's tired eyes. Will stands in the center of the open space, listening as Hannibal sheds his suit jacket and his tie, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and makes himself comfortable.

Will shivers as Hannibal comes to him, turns him so their eyes can meet. "I can taste your fear," he murmurs, tilting his head.

Will's lips twitch in a thin smile. "I am afraid," he admits, and lowers his gaze to Hannibal's chest. The swirl of colors in him is unmoving, as though set in stone. If the future is still up for debate, Will finds solace in knowing that Hannibal's love for him is not. "If you lose your wings because of me…"

"Don't think about that," Hannibal says gently, cupping Will's chin in a soft touch. He rolls his shoulders, his wings unfurling, and Will gasps, his fingers clenching in an aborted move to immediately reach out and touch them. Hannibal smiles, and presses them into Will's hands, lets Will's fingers graze the edges of his feathers, stiff and shining with oil. It makes him feel warm, when he does it, to see Hannibal shiver in answer.

He tilts Will up for a kiss, and Will meets him eagerly, pressing close between his arms and his wings. He drags his hands up, ruffling the soft feathers on the underside of Hannibal's wings, until he can meet their base, feel where the swollen lumps of his oil glands sit. He presses just shy of them, mindful of Hannibal's clothes, and sucks in a breath when Hannibal's teeth bite down on his lower lip.

" _Hannibal_ ," he breathes, when they have to part for air. Hannibal smiles at him, and rests their foreheads together, and Will swallows. "Please tell me no one's going to be calling any time soon."

Hannibal laughs. "My phone is still in the car," he replies quietly. "Yours, in your coat downstairs." His eyes are dark in the low light, pupils wide, his fingers trailing gentle and warm up Will's neck. "No one knows where we are."

Will nods, and pushes his fingers the rest of the way, hemming Hannibal in by the base of his wings. Hannibal growls, wings fluttering in pleasure as Will rubs his thumbs over the glands, wetting his hands. Hannibal kisses him again, much more fiercely this time, and guides Will to the bed.

Will falls against it and yanks Hannibal on top of him, Hannibal's thighs straddling his, wide, settling over Will's hips. Will growls, rearing up to claim Hannibal's mouth in another kiss, his hands pawing restlessly at Hannibal's clothes. Hannibal is just as frantic, tugging on his shirt and pulling it up over his head, baring his chest and stomach. Will's hands are too wet to be of much use with the buttons of Hannibal's shirt, but Hannibal seems more than happy to do it himself, his wings pressing insistently into Will's touch, eager for more of it.

Perhaps time has ceased to mean anything, or maybe Will was just distracted, but there isn't any buildup like there was before. Hannibal's back is wet, his skin shining, and Will's arousal drops on him like no time passed between this morning and this moment.

He claws at Hannibal's back, pushing his shirt off and tossing it to one side. Hannibal kisses him, rutting against him, his wings arching high and quivering with arousal as Will pets and strokes through his feathers. Will kisses back, fierce and wanting, and only lets go long enough to fumble his pants and underwear down to his knees, and then Hannibal's. He rolls Hannibal to his back, careful not to crush his wing, and braces himself between Hannibal's legs, yanking their clothes the rest of the way off so that Hannibal is bare for him, and Will for Hannibal.

He crawls up Hannibal's body, leans down and nuzzles his mouth, hands finding their way back to his splayed-out, beautiful wings. It seems natural, Will's hands so slick with oil, to use one of them to brush between Hannibal's legs, where he's dry and tight.

"Will," Hannibal gasps. If he has any protest, or feels surprise that Will would want to be inside him, he doesn't show it. Will wants it; he wants to claw his way into Hannibal's chest, bathe in the light of his love. He wants to be encased in Hannibal's wings, sheathed in his body, wants his tongue in Hannibal's mouth and his teeth in Hannibal's neck, wants it all so desperately he can't do more than moan as Hannibal pets over his scarred back, hips lifting in encouragement.

Will presses their foreheads together, and doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice when he says, "Look at me." As if Hannibal has any other choice. His lashes are low under his dark eyes, his lips full and bruised by kisses, parted, panting. Will's lip twitches back, baring his teeth, and he growls as he works the first wet finger into Hannibal.

His other hand grips the thickest part of Hannibal's wings, close to the base, below his arm. Hannibal's hand curls in his hair in answer, his chin tilting back as Will crooks his finger up, drags it back slow, pushes in with a second. He's impatient, hot-headed, spine molten and ready to burst, to fill the mold of Hannibal's body and create a monument inside him.

He rubs their noses together, bites Hannibal's upper lip, tugs just to hear him gasp again, and pulls his fingers out, slicking his cock with the rest of Hannibal's oil. The scent of it is honey-sweet, rich and thick in his nose, coating his mouth, water and blood behind his teeth.

Hannibal's hands flatten on Will's sides, drawing him in, accepting, eager. Will can't help but kiss him, fisting his feathers, and then his hair, as he angles himself right and pushes, feels Hannibal give and open around him, and let him in.

Hannibal moans against his mouth, quiet and stilted but so ragged Will can't breathe. His wings flare up, wrapping around Will, encasing them in wet darkness, humid and hot and heavy on Will's shoulders. The wrist joints cling to Will's scars like hands as Hannibal lifts his head, Will's hand cupping his skull to help him, and kisses the remaining air from Will's lungs.

He pushes in until he can't go further, trembles as Hannibal clenches up around him, curls and lifts his knees to grip Will with his strong thighs. Will wants to touch him everywhere, all the time; wants hands in his wings and his hair and digging nails into his thighs. Wants to press against his pulse and over his heart and touch his cock and anything, everything he can do to make Hannibal feel as alive, as invincible, as Will does in this moment.

He pulls back, rolls his hips as slowly as he can, and tenses when Hannibal winces – it's such a small change in his face, Will wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been looking so closely. "You okay?"

Hannibal lets out a soft, discomfited sound. "I think I'd be more comfortable on top," he replies lightly. "The fabric is not forgiving."

Will huffs, and leans down to kiss him, petting up Hannibal's back and stroking through the ruffled, crimped mess of his wings. "Okay," he murmurs. It's not like he has to worry about the same thing, after all. He pulls out slowly, hissing when his cock meets the cool air, impatient to get back inside Hannibal. Hannibal rises, flares his wings wide and presses Will onto his back, straddling his thighs. Will stares up at him, awed and breathless, watching as Hannibal touches Will's cock, adding more of his oil to the warm flesh, rolls his hips, and gracefully takes Will back inside him.

" _Hannibal_ ," he whispers, petting up Hannibal's thighs, his stomach, his broad chest. Hannibal's wings fall, heavy and lax, on either side of them, so Will can only stare upwards, only see him. Hannibal smiles at him, pushing Will's sweaty hair from his face, and Will's heart races at the gentle touch. He's on the edge of something, static and trembling. Just needs the push to fly.

His lips part at the soft press of Hannibal's thumb to the corner of his mouth, Hannibal leans down over him and draws him up for a kiss. Will gasps into it, the sound turning into a ragged moan as Hannibal clenches up around him, his body rolling in a steady pseudo-thrust, tight and burning hot around Will's cock.

He drags his nails across the base of Hannibal's wings, soothing the feathers down from where they'd gotten ruffled and displaced against the bed. He's lying in a stain of Hannibal's oil now, surrounded by his scent, and Hannibal growls, kisses him again, keeps moving in slow, lazy rocks of his hips, his eyes falling closed.

Will snarls, and rears up to bite at his collarbone. Hannibal's eyes flare open, wide and dark, and Will meets them. "Look at me," he demands. He grips Hannibal's chin, rests their foreheads together. "Look at me," he whispers again.

Hannibal nods, his hands flattening on Will's shoulders, gripping tight as he uses the new angle to push his cock against Will's stomach, rutting back onto Will. His wings flutter, twitching whenever Will sinks deep, and Hannibal's eyes grow hazy and half-lidded, but do not close.

Will smiles, and slides his grip to Hannibal's nape, fingers threading through the sweat-damp ends of his hair. His gaze drops, to where Hannibal is alight with color, fierce red and blooming purple and still, always, still that white. It threads through his body like blood in veins, fingertips staining Will's skin, kiss bruising his mouth. Though it's impossible, Will thinks he's giving some of it to Will, feeding his purity and grace into Will's vacant, scarred body.

Will clenches his eyes tightly shut, burying his face in Hannibal's neck, clutching at him fiercely. It's so much, seeing and feeling Hannibal's heat, his love, his wings as they circle and cling to Will's back. Hannibal kisses his hair, nuzzles him gently as Will's shoulders shake, his breaths devolve into a series of heavy, ragged, pained noises. "Will," he coaxes. "Will, darling, look at me."

Will can't disobey, not when he demanded the same. Fair's fair and all that; quid pro quo. He lifts his head and his vision has blurred, red and wet at the edge, stinging as Hannibal cups his face and brushes a thumb over his blushing cheek.

He sighs, and smiles, leans in and kisses Will's forehead lightly. "Don't hide away from me," he murmurs. Will grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. Hannibal kisses down his temple, his cheek, claims his mouth again. He takes one of Will's hands from his back, pushes between their bellies, makes Will wrap his fingers around Hannibal's leaking cock. "Touch me," he says, and Will swallows, tightening his hand, stroking slowly in time with Hannibal's slow-rolling hips. Hannibal sighs again, smiling widely, and kisses him in reward.

Will gasps, tilting his head back. Every time his thumb sweeps below the head of Hannibal's cock, he feels Hannibal tighten, clench in answer, twitching in Will's hand. He's the first person in as long as Will can remember that Will has touched like this; humans are too open, too vulnerable, altogether too messy for him to stomach. Seeing the stains on their souls, even the good ones, kept him from wanting to touch. But Hannibal, he could drown in. Dig a furrow and plant himself deep; blood, seed, teeth and claws and oil.

Hannibal's eyes flash, and he cups Will's face, drawing him into another kiss as Will's pace quickens, his free hand reaching back to brace himself upright as Hannibal rides him. Hannibal's wings brush down his shoulders, his breathing coming hard and fast as he tries to work himself on Will's cock, and Will falls back, grips his hip and digs his heels in, fucking up hard and deep into Hannibal's body.

He gasps, face going suddenly lax, and Will smiles up at him. He strokes Hannibal's cock and pets his other up Hannibal's chest, settling over his heart, over the glow of love settled deep behind his ribs. Hannibal's rhythm stutters, suddenly, and he goes still with a stifled, impatient snarl.

His eyes are black, fixed heavy and predatory on Will, and Will tilts his head, bares his neck, as Hannibal leans over him, rising enough to his knees that Will can move properly, give him the depth and force he clearly needs. Hannibal growls, drags his nails beneath Will's back and digs them around the knotted rise of his scars.

He kisses, and his wings flare high as he comes, panting and collapsing hard over Will. Will groans softly, letting go of his cock and gripping his waist instead, making him settle so Will can feel every inch of shuddering, clenching muscle. Hannibal noses at his neck, kisses wide and warm over his racing pulse, and the edge of his teeth and the brush of his wings is all Will needs to follow him over that cliff, straight into the freefall.

He throws his free arm around the back of Hannibal's neck, holding him close as he can, shivering through his orgasm as Hannibal kisses and licks the sweat from his throat. Hannibal's wings fall, cocooning them both eagerly, he pets through Will's hair and steals his breath, kisses him deep and long as Will tries to recover.

Will winces as his soft cock slips out, rubs his hands up Hannibal's shaking back, and blinks up at him wide-eyed and dazed, when Hannibal lifts his head.

He smiles, and if the glow of his love was bright before, now he's incandescent with it. "Oh, Will," he breathes, and rests their foreheads together. "I see you, darling, as clearly as I ever have."

Will swallows. Wants to turn his face away.

"I see you, Will," Hannibal repeats, insistent. He won't let Will retreat. Will's throat is tight and it's too hard to try to speak. "You're beautiful."

Will swallows, and he settles his twitching fingers against Hannibal's cheek. "Stop," he rasps. He doesn't have the strength to hear that kind of thing now. Not when he can see it. Hannibal hums, face soft with understanding, and merely turns to kiss at the meat of Will's thumb. Will breathes in, tastes oil and come and sweat in the air, salt on the water, the promising sweetness of oncoming rain.

Hannibal lifts his head, gaze turned to the window. He breathes out. "The storm will be upon us soon," he murmurs.

Will nods. "I'm not afraid of storms."

"Nor I," Hannibal says. And he's not afraid; Will sees no fear, nothing but satisfaction, relief.

"Hannibal," he whispers, and wets his lips when Hannibal meets his eyes. He looks serene, untouchable, so strong and beautiful and Will doesn't remember what home feels like, and it's sappy to even equate Heaven to Hannibal, but he thinks this place must be closer to the Kingdom above, after all. "I…"

Hannibal's smile is wide, soft with adoration. He pushes himself off Will's lap and settles on his back, carefully pulling Will into his arms, and then wrapping his wings around them both, shielding Will from the roar of the ocean and everything but the calming, steady beat of his own heart as it syncs to Hannibal's.

He rests his head on Hannibal's shoulder, flattening a hand through his sweat-softened chest hair, and sighs against his neck. "Will," Hannibal says, before he can speak, and Will replies with a soft hum. "If your dream does come to pass, and I lose my wings…"

Will tenses. "Don't talk like that."

"Hush, darling, let me speak," Hannibal says, more firmly, and presses a kiss to his sweaty hair. "If I do lose my wings, I want you to know that I do not regret a single decision, action, or moment that led up to it. I would make every choice again, if it meant I stayed by your side."

Will closes his eyes. Breathes in, deeply, and buries his face against Hannibal's skin. "Just promise me you won't let yourself get hurt like that," he replies, tight with strain. If the Dragon does come, and _dares_ , oh, Lord in Heaven, let him dare.

Hannibal's voice is soft with humor. "I will certainly try," he promises, and rolls onto his side. They have to let one of his wings pull back, to save it from being crushed, but Will is happy to burrow against his chest, rolling to his side, his mouth at Hannibal's collarbone, their legs entwining beneath Hannibal's heavy, wet wing.

He's tired, trying to remain awake, but nightmares wear him out and the day has been long, emotionally draining, combined with the stress of being in this too-familiar place and Hannibal's effective method of distracting him. Hannibal kisses his forehead. "Sleep, Will," he says. "I'll wake you if I hear the howl."

"Aren't you tired?" Will asks.

"Not at all," Hannibal replies brightly. "I think it will be a while before I'm calm again." Despite himself, Will smiles, warm with pride at the obvious pleasure in Hannibal's voice. Hannibal kisses his hair again, and draws him impossibly closer. "Sleep."

Will nods, stifling a yawn, and closes his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

He does not wake to the howl, but instead to Hannibal's low, pained grunt. He stirs immediately, blinking in surprise when Hannibal's wing twitches away from him, his face twisted into an uncomfortable grimace. Will straightens immediately, touching his face – they didn't turn the lights off, and so he can see Hannibal's pain in stark clarity, see how he twists onto his stomach and arches up sharply, his wings fluttering weakly and drawn tight to his back.

"Hannibal," he says, cupping his face, trying to see his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Hannibal snarls, shaking his head sharply, and reaches, clawing at his own back. Will presses his lips together, pushing himself to his knees. Hannibal's back looks red, swollen and tender like he took a series of sharp blows down his spine. His skin is stretched, peeling in sharp lines like it's trying to compensate for a new growth. Like the houses and cars, Hannibal's body can't contain whatever is inside him, and Will lets out a low sound of worry, and when he touches Hannibal's back, finds him blister-hot with fever, shining with sweat.

"Talk to me," he urges. Hannibal snaps his teeth together, blustering heavily, and drags his nails down his back again.

"I don't know," he confesses. He sounds more in pain than afraid, which Will is glad for – he's worried enough for both of them.

He touches Hannibal's back, frowns, and gently coaxes one of his wings up. "Try to draw them in," he murmurs, and it takes a moment for Hannibal to obey, revealing his human flesh. Will gasps, eyes widening. There are two thick, bulging lines down either side of Hannibal's back, the skin around them red-hot and dark with bruising.

He doesn't dare to assume what might be happening, but there's only so many things that make wounds like that.

"Stay here," he says, and kisses Hannibal's hair, before rising to his feet and rushing to the bathroom. Hannibal groans in pain, loud enough it makes Will's heart stutter. He opens the bathroom cabinet, fishing frantically for something sharp enough to cut, and finds a small pair of scissors in a shaving kit. He takes them, leaving the rest of the kit discarded, and rushes back to kneel between Hannibal's knees.

He flattens a hand in Hannibal's hair, draws in a deep breath. "This will hurt," he says. Hannibal snarls at him, clenching his fists, white-knuckled against the bed. Will swallows harshly, and hopes he's not wrong, as he opens the scissors so a single side of it is open and waiting, and digs the sharp tip to the base of the bulge on Hannibal's left side.

He draws it up, skin splitting and blood welling up thick and hot and bright red. The skin parts, and Will swallows, a soft sigh escaping him when he sees, revealed between the slick, torn layers of Hannibal's flesh, fresh feathers. New wings.

He grits his teeth, and slices the other side open, before throwing the scissors away. His fingers dig into the top joint of the left wing, carefully coaxing them out of Hannibal's back. Hannibal breathes out heavily, shaky with relief, the same way the cars and houses are when Will leaves them.

Will's eyes sting with tears, and he viciously stamps down the emotions welling in his chest; confusion, anger, righteous wrath. Hannibal is growing new wings, something that marks a level of ascension in angels, and here Will is, still scarred and lacking any.

The feathers are slick with blood, dripping heavy down Will's wrists. Beneath the viscera, he can see that they are a deep, deep red color, shining with a purple hue, but when the light catches them, Will can see the delicate shine of white bone through them. They are beautiful, fine-boned and shaped like those of a crow, with a wider base than his originals. More like Will's secondary wings were, Will thinks, with another sharp stab of jealous, confused anger.

The first wing comes free and he stretches it out, careful not to twist and bend it in the wrong direction as Hannibal trembles, panting, beneath him. Then, he carefully pushes his fingers through the second cut, peeling the skin wide as he gently coaxes the second wing free. This one is the same color, that reddish-purple like rare meat, glistening with Hannibal's blood and fresh oil.

Will swallows harshly, thumbing down the edges of the cuts on Hannibal's back. Hannibal lifts his head, delirious and lethargic with pain, and looks over his shoulder to see them. His eyes widen, and the new wings give a little aborted twitch of surprise.

Will shushes him, and kisses the bloody skin along his spine. "Don't strain them," he says, and rises from the bed again to fetch a washcloth, which he wets with warm water. He returns with it and kneels on the bed over Hannibal's thighs, wiping the wings down with slow, careful strokes.

Hannibal swallows harshly, closing his eyes and bowing his head as Will cleans him. His wings twitch again, trying to pull in, and he lets out a little worried sound. "I can't draw them in," he says.

Will's mouth twists. "They're still new," he replies. "You might not be able to, for a while."

Hannibal doesn't answer. Will cleans him thoroughly, until the cloth is red and tacky with clotting blood. He throws it off the bed and rises, carefully crawling around Hannibal and helping him kneel upright. The new wings sag, too weak to hold themselves up, and Hannibal's face twists in another pained grimace.

Will shushes him, dragging his fingers feather-light over Hannibal's chest, up his neck. He presses two fingers flat to feel that his pulse is racing. Then, up, touching his jaw, his flushed cheeks, his fallen hair, which he pushes back.

After a moment, Hannibal's shoulders roll, and his original, grey wings unfurl over the new ones, lying flat like a red silhouette on the bed. Will can't help the raw, gut-deep sound he lets out, and he tries to bite it back, tries to stifle it against his knuckles, but he doesn't look away in time to hide his face, or his tears.

Hannibal sighs. "I don't know why, Will," he murmurs.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Will replies darkly. "Why should I care which angels get their wings, and which don't? There but for the grace of God."

"Don't say that."

Will shakes his head sharply. "Don't try and calm me down."

"I can't help it, Will – your distress, your sorrow, hurts me to my core. I'm compelled to soothe it, to provide comfort to you in any way I can."

"But you can't," Will snaps. " _Fuck_ , Hannibal, what I wouldn't give to have my wings back. Even two of them. And it's -." It's cruel, it's so cruel of his father, to make Will be the one to pull a second set from Hannibal's body. Why _him_. Why did it have to be _him_?

_My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?_

He trembles around another sob, wiping his hand viciously across his tear-stained cheeks, spreading oil and blood on his face. He can see, through his tears, that the white glow of Hannibal's love is in his wings, too, and thinks it the worst trick of irony, that perhaps it was _because_ of that love, that they have appeared. It is a drastic change, to accept free will, even more drastic to feel such love as that. It is the kind of love that formed humanity and turns tides, swallows mountains, makes angels fall.

It's not Hannibal's fault, but Will is so black with rage, he doesn't know what he might do if Hannibal tries to touch him. Hannibal must sense that, for while all four of his wings quiver with the desire to reach out, to embrace, he does not let them. The new wings are thick and wide, not built for speed like a predator's, but rounder, made to protect and provide comfort. Another piece of evidence with undeniable proof that they manifested out of need; lightning-fast evolution. Hannibal wants to comfort and protect him, and so his grace gave him the power to do so.

More tears fall, and Will wipes them away slowly, too slowly to stop their taste hitting his tongue. He looks out the window to see that the storm has come to them, lightning cracking across the sky, illuminating thick sheets of rain that provide a high harmony to the bass chorus of thunder.

"Are you in pain?" he whispers.

Hannibal shakes his head in Will's periphery. "Not physical, no," he replies.

Will nods. His pain isn't physical, either.

He reaches out blindly, and finds Hannibal's hand, lacing their fingers together. It's a cruel twist of a knife, hearing how wretched with relief Hannibal's exhale is, how tightly he squeezes Will's hand. His new wings twitch again, brush along Will's thigh, and Will jerks like he's been scalded.

He rises from the bed, wiping his hands together, and fishes for his jeans, pulls them on and his shirt over his head. "I need to be alone for a while," he says, unable to meet Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal swallows loud enough for him to hear, and sighs quietly. "Will," he says, making Will halt in place. He turns, eyes fixed on the corner of the bed. "Be safe. Please."

Will sets his teeth on either edges, grinds his molars together harshly, and nods. "I'm not leaving," he says, because he feels like Hannibal needs to hear it. Indeed, another exhale comes, weak with relief, and his wings flutter restlessly in Will's periphery. "I just…need a minute."

Hannibal nods again. "I'll be here," he replies.

Will nods, and leaves the room before he can say anything awful. He flees down the stairs, finds their abandoned wine glasses, finishes his, and then Hannibal's. Finds the bottle and downs it all with long pulls, until the burn of the alcohol clogs his throat and he can't quite breathe.

His cigarettes are in his jacket, and he goes to them, heading out the door and circling to the porch. He lights one, the rest gripped in his free hand, ready to smoke and drink himself into oblivion if that's what it takes the cure to raw, howling, awful feeling clawing its way through his chest. He feels a scream sitting at the base of his throat, but knows if he were to start, he would never stop.

A shadow prowls around the edge of the cliff, and Will meets the glowing eyes of his hound, grins at her through a plume of smoke. "Is he close?" he asks her.

She bares her teeth at him, and nods.

"Good," Will says, taking another drag. Hannibal stopped him claiming his first kill, but he will not stop this one. Will's hands shake, he wants to cut something, to do harm, to tear and destroy. He will become the creature mothers and fathers whisper about to their children; he will be the demon, the Devil, the harbinger of evil and the Prince of Lies.

So be it. If his father thinks him unworthy, even with the love and loyalty of the angel of redemption, if They would rather elevate Hannibal and leave Will in the dirt, Their will be done.

If his father thinks of him as a monster, then a monster he shall be.

 

 

Will stands, and waits, the rain falling thick and heavy enough to grow in pools along the porch, ebbing up to his bare toes, buffeting his face and arms, chilling him to the bone. He shudders, and thinks with no small amount of vicious jealousy that he would be able to protect himself, if he had his wings. He keeps his cigarettes burning despite being soaked through, and looks at the orange rectangle of light on the porch, shining from Hannibal's bedroom.

His hound continues to pace, snarling and keeping watch, and Will's entire being thrums with impatience. If this Dragon wants to try and kill them both, the least he can do is be on fucking time.

Suddenly, his hound freezes, and lifts her head. Stares at the window of Hannibal's bedroom, just as Will sees a shadow block it out. It's not Hannibal, it's too tall and narrow and doesn't have any wings. His breath catches, and he doesn't hesitate – no matter what he feels, no angel deserves to have their wings torn from their backs, and he would rather die than see Hannibal come to harm because of something Will did.

He pauses only long enough to grab a large knife from the block in the kitchen, and then flees up the stairs, pushing into Hannibal's bedroom. He freezes, panting heavily. Hannibal is asleep, or unconscious, his four wings splayed out wide over his body and the bed, still bare, his face turned away from Will's direction. He's still breathing, as far as Will can tell, but he looks bloodier than when Will left him.

A snarl, lower even than that of his hound, rumbles in the air. Will swallows, his eyes alighting on the Dragon. He has taken the shape of a man, tall and lean, but every inch of him is muscle and bone. A purely mechanical thing, made to kill. There's a scar on his upper lip, baring two overly-pointed teeth, his hair short-cropped, his eyes fierce and sharp when they meet Will's.

There's a serrated blade in his hand, and he grins at Will, and rises, and Will swallows back the soft whine he wants to let out when he sees that one of Hannibal's grey wings has been partially severed from his back.

He tightens his grip, and snarls when the Dragon cocks his head, eyes brightening with curiosity. "It's you," he says, and smiles. He circles the bed, so there's nothing between him and Will. His bearing is monumental, statuesque, but undeniably animal – a feral missing link between monster and man. He takes a step closer, and Will lifts his chin.

"Stay where you are," he says harshly. He wishes he had a gun, but that would be too quick. He wants this to go slow. Blood drips from the Dragon's blade, _Hannibal's_ blood, and Will is blind with rage. He lifts his own knife, hand steady as stone, threatening, the metal gleaming in the low light.

The Dragon laughs at him. "Are you threatening me?" he purrs, and takes another step closer. They're just shy of lunging distance apart, the width of the bed and then an additional foot separating them. "You should be kneeling at my feet. Rejoice!" he crows, and spreads his hands out wide. An arc of blood flies from the blade, landing on Will's cheek. He flinches, but refuses to back down. "You are lucky enough to bear witness to the glory of the Great Red Dragon!"

"The Red Dragon has only one form, and one name," Will hisses. "The Devil, the usurper. I am he."

The Dragon snarls at him, lowering his hands. "No," he says coldly. His gaze is razor-sharpness, metal beneath velvet, ready to cut any who dare try to touch. "You are weak. Mortal. It is time for you to surrender your throne."

Will laughs. "Are you mad? Only God can demand that, and you are _nothing_."

"I am above God!" the Dragon snaps, baring his vicious-looking, sharp teeth. "I have slaughtered His children by the thousands. I have wet the Earth with their tears." He smiles, and tilts his head. "Do you miss your wings, usurper? Would you like to see them again?"

Will frowns, his blade lowering just an inch. It's impossible. "You can't give me my wings back," he rasps.

The Dragon growls, a delighted trill in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and sighs, and Will feels the entire cabin groan and buckle as his wings unfurl. The foundations of the cliffs shake beneath the rumble of thunder, and the Dragon's wings spread wide.

Will gasps, not in awe, but in horror. They are huge and monstrous things, but that is not what makes him freeze. For one thing is clear; the Dragon's wings are not one solid piece of flesh, but many. Leathery skin stitched together in thick splotches of black, of white, and red, and grey. Feathers stuck from stitches and old scars. Metal glinting mismatched and all in the wrong angles: the Dragon's wings are a Frankenstein patchwork quilt of angels. There are too many to count.

And even still, that is not what turns the riotous horror in Will to anger. He recognizes the mercurial glint of metallic feathers. He recognizes their unique shape. The Devil is the only angel in creation to have wings such as those.

He took them. He took them and turned them into this bastardized, unnatural, _unholy_ -.

The Dragon laughs, and raises his hands up again. "Do you see?" he snarls, and Will does see. He sees red – unmatched, bright as fresh blood. He sees it like a fog, embracing the Dragon's body, and snarls, running for the heart of it.

They collide together and crash, stumbling back as Will swipes with his knife, shrieking with outrage. How dare he, how _dare_ he take Will's wings and mold them into this unnatural thing. The Dragon snarls, grabbing at him, but Will has no wings now to tear at, to take. He lunges again, hard enough that they hit the window, and crash right through.

The ground rushes up to meet them, and the Dragon lands hard on his back, arching with a howl and swiping at Will's face with his terrible claws. Will jerks, hissing as nails sink into his shoulder, raking down, spilling his blood fresh and red. He angles his knife and jabs for the Dragon's throat, but a hard punch sends him flying to the side, and he skids several feet, coughing and gritting his teeth, trying to get upright.

The Dragon is on him, hauling him up by his hair. He laughs, and taunts Will with an embrace of his wings, almost blissfully gentle, before his serrated blade cuts through Will's shoulder from the front. Will grunts, gritting his teeth, reaches blindly for his knife before the Dragon can slit his throat and jerks up, slicing through one of the Dragon's wings.

He howls, releasing Will, and Will scrambles to his feet, but is knocked over again as the Dragon lunges for him. He puts Will on his back, his wings strong enough to pin Will's wrists, his hands forcing Will's thighs apart and pushing his shirt up to expose his stomach.

"What a brave boy you are," the Dragon murmurs. "I will enjoy transforming you."

Will snarls at him, blinded in the rain, shivering with cold, adrenaline making his heart pulse frantically in his chest. He kicks, but in vain, as the Dragon drags his blade across Will's belly. He doesn't cut, but Will doesn't doubt he intends to. His shoulder aches, he can barely move the fingers of that hand, but he grips his knife as tight as he can, refusing to let go.

The Dragon leans down, cupping his face like a lover, and smiles at him. "You see me, don't you?" he purrs, and Will grimaces as he licks along Will's cheek. He bites down, sharp teeth splitting his skin and sinking around his jaw, and Will's mouth floods with blood.

Then, suddenly, he jerks back with a howl, and Will gasps as he sees his hound tearing at one of his wings, her sharp teeth grinding through the stitches, ripping a chunk off at the seams. Will pushes himself to his feet, grunting in pain, and crawls back as the Dragon swipes at his hound, sending her flying back with a whimper. She will not die, she cannot die in this plane, and Will snarls, a viscerally pleased smile on his face when he sees that she has taken a huge chunk of the Dragon's wing in her attack.

The Dragon glares at him, standing, puffed up as big as he can get.

It hurts to speak with his injured jaw, and he's weak and dizzy with blood loss, nicotine and adrenaline and cold, but he's standing and that's better than a minute ago. "The Red Dragon doesn't win," he says, spitting a wad of bloody saliva onto the ground. "Not in any of the stories."

The Dragon snarls, huffing. "This is my day of triumph," he says. Will doesn't remember a time he believed in something that much. It's almost something to be envied. Almost.

Will is in the halo of light from Hannibal's bedroom, and he only has a moment to register when it darkens, before he looks up, and sees Hannibal standing on the ledge of the broken window. His flank is wet with blood, his skin coated with it, and Will lets out a low sound of relief.

Their eyes meet, and Hannibal smiles at him, before he leaps, wings flaring out – only three of them, Will notices with a wince, his fourth hanging limply by his side – to slow his fall, and he lands heavy on the Dragon's back. He wraps his arms around the Dragon's throat, and Will rushes for him, and as Hannibal's teeth sink into his neck, Will's blade finds his belly, and swipes viciously from one side to the other, doing what the Dragon could not do to him.

Hannibal jerks back with a snarl, tearing out a chunk of the Dragon's throat, and lightning glows in his eyes, wide and staring upwards, unblinking in the rain. Hannibal bites again, tearing out another piece, and the Dragon falls to his knees at Will's feet.

Will smiles, as Hannibal steps back, panting heavily and shivering in the rain, his new wings twitching frantically as they try to pull around him to keep him warm. He goes to Will, wraps his good grey wing around Will's shoulders as Will fists a hand in the Dragon's short hair and makes him lift his head.

"No," the Dragon whispers around his ruined throat. He paws weakly at Will's wrist. "This is my triumph. My becoming."

"And this is mine," Will whispers. Hannibal doesn't stop him putting his knife to the Dragon's throat, and slicing clean across it.

The Dragon chokes, staring up at Will with nothing short of awe. His wings droop, fluttering weakly, and Will throws him onto his back, the pool of blood growing wide and dark from the wounds in his neck and his stomach.

He tosses the knife away, and meets Hannibal's eyes. There's blood in Hannibal's mouth. One of his grey wings is hanging, limp and lifeless. He whimpers, and cups Hannibal's cheek, closing his eyes and resting their foreheads together.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him until Will can't breathe. "I'm not," he replies. He leaves Will, only for a moment, and Will stares down at the Dragon's body as he breathes his last. He shudders, wiping a hand over his mouth, tears burning the backs of his eyes.

"He took my wings," he says, to no one in particular, though he's sure Hannibal is listening. "He took them, and God knows how many others. He…"

A gentle hand rests upon his back, and Will sobs.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, and Will turns his head, sees Hannibal holding the Dragon's blade in his hand. "Take mine."

Will gasps, lifting his eyes. "What?" he demands, and steps back.

"I cannot heal them, not without going home," Hannibal murmurs. "And I have no need for so many." He smiles, and holds out the blade. "Take mine. Take the ones I was given by God, and keep them for yourself, and I will keep the ones my love for you gave me."

Will stares at him. He stares, and stares, as the rain washes away their sins. "I can't do that," he says.

Hannibal nods, like he expected that. "I can," he says, just as he said before, and Will doesn't stop him in time to lift the blade in his hand, bending it back over his own shoulder. He clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring, and slices with a clean, precise cut. His wing falls to the ground, a bloody stump and fine grey feathers soaking in the rain and the Dragon's blood.

Will takes a step, and stumbles to his knees, panting and gazing up at Hannibal as he does the same with his other wing, only a grunt and a roll of his shoulders betraying the pain. But Will knows that pain, he knows it intimately.

He's weeping openly as Hannibal drops the blade, and picks up his bloodied grey wings. He circles Will and, with reverent touches, pulls Will's sodden shirt from his body, baring his chest and scarred back.

Hannibal kneels behind him, and kisses the topmost scars. "Breathe in," he whispers, and Will does, and closes his eyes.

The first touch of Hannibal's bloody wing to his back burns him, and Will jerks, body ricocheting like it's been struck by lightning. Finally, that scream he held so doggedly back comes loose, and he shrieks and howls and screams at the storm-torn sky, feels sinew and bone and skin melt together. Feels the drag and claw of jagged bone and solid joints melting into his back. He collapses to his hands and knees, arching, screaming again, and Hannibal's wings fall heavy on his back, and with a single, sharp point of pain that feels never-ending and like it consumes every piece of Will's body, they twitch, and flare wide of his own accord.

Then, abruptly, the pain vanishes, leaving behind a dull ache like the aftereffects of an intense massage. Will chokes on a scream, moaning weakly as he feels Hannibal's warm hands pet over his back, down his spine, rubbing gently at the joints of his wings beneath his shoulder blades. Hannibal's wings – no, _his_ wings – twitch and tremble at the sensation. Oh, _oh_ , he can _feel_ them.

" _Hannibal_ ," he cries, so raw and wretched he wonders if this is how it sounds for God to hear the prayers of Their faithful.

"I'm here," Hannibal murmurs, and rises, circling Will and kneeling in front of him. He cups Will's face and Will grasps at him, whimpering and shaking, his wings twitching and jerking like newborn limbs. They are new, they're brand new, and feel strong and capable.

Hannibal's red wings flatten over his own, and Will collapses again, a sweet moan torn from his lungs as Hannibal embraces him, with his new wings borne of Will's love, tugging Will to his chest. His heartbeat is steady, his flesh warm, and Will bares his teeth and bleeds onto his skin and doesn't know how he'll ever be able to cope with the sheer relief of having his wings back.

"Hannibal," he breathes. " _Fuck_."

"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" Hannibal murmurs. He would know, Will supposes. He'd know better than anyone. They are the only two angels in existence to have both lost their wings, and been given new ones. Ones that better suit – Will's, softer but built for stealth attacks, smaller, to allow him to travel swiftly, help him hunt and provide. Hannibal's, wide and warm and thick, made to embrace, to protect, to act as a shield.

They've changed each other, and changed the world. The storm is moving on.

Will lifts his head, sighing as Hannibal thumbs over the bite on his jaw, his mouth pulled down in a frown and his brow creased. Will grips him by the nape and kisses him fiercely, blood shared in their mouths, coating their tongues. Will's head is on fire, and he thinks, in the brush of their wings and Hannibal's warm hands and the scent of his blood, he can feel nothing else but how ardently, how sweetly, how wholly Hannibal loves him.

They part for air, breathing hard, and Will arches his wings against Hannibal's just because he can. Hannibal smiles, eyes dark with pleasure, and pushes himself to his feet. He helps Will stand, and kisses him, hands and wings touching Will without pause.

"Come inside," he urges, and Will nods, following him in. The air is warm and Will shivers, dripping blood and water onto the floor.

"It's done," he rasps. "It's…over?"

Hannibal nods.

"I killed him," Will says. "What does that mean for me?"

"I had a hand in killing him," Hannibal replies. Not to take credit, but to share blame. "The righteous slayed the wicked, and the good received their just reward." He smiles, and turns to Will, taking his hand. He kisses Will's knuckles, so warm against Will's chilled skin. He shivers, wings flexing and fluttering to a halt at his back. The weight of them feels like completion, the look in Hannibal's eyes is like coming home.

He cups Hannibal's face, and rests their foreheads together. He doesn't know how long they can stay here, if Jack will catch wise to their disappearance and come looking. If someone knew the Dragon, and will know where to find him. He doesn't know, and for the first time, delights in not knowing.

"I think," he says slowly, mindful of his aching jaw, "that America could do with two fewer angels, for a while."

Hannibal smiles at him, wide and brilliant with white light, so beautifully happy.

"Would you like to go somewhere cold?" he asks.

Will shakes his head. "Take me somewhere warm, and golden," he replies. "A place where the buildings can stomach us. Somewhere that is made for angels."

Hannibal laughs, and kisses him long and sweet. "I know just the place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand it's done! Wild, right? I started this having no idea where it was going to go but I'm quite happy with it tbh.
> 
> I hope you guys liked it! See you next time <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got in a mood and wrote a little murder angel husbands epilogue :D Enjoy!

Europe feels _wonderful_. The buildings are made of welcoming, breathing stone, that does not heave against the plaster and load-bearing walls like someone trying to squeeze into too-tight clothing. Though most of the living spaces are smaller, they were built for monsters and men alike. Through brick and limestone and iron, breezes light and chilly breathe. Slate shingles shuffle happily along the arched-back rooves, spines of kittens lifted and ruffled by a petting hand.

Will stands on the stone balcony of a long line of mottled stone buildings. The balcony itself is white, a thin sheen of plaster over stone, iron railings propping him up as he rests his forearms on the edges of them, idly watching the shuffle of mortals down below. Is this what the view is like for God, he wonders, or perhaps there is someone in a room above, watching him just the same. Wondering what he's thinking, what he's feeling. How he got there.

Wondering, perhaps, how he can stand to be in such a cold place with his feet bare, a t-shirt falling loose around his neck and biceps because it doesn't technically belong to him but 'What's mine is yours, forever and always'. His pajama pants, though long, are thin, much more suited to warmer climates.

Will's breath mists, and he can feel the crispness of the air stinging the moisture in his nose, numbing the tips of his ears, replacing his bones with ice, but he relishes the cold. He loves how rawly, unapologetically alive his mortal body becomes when he is finally pushed back into the warmth of the apartment.

His head tilts, hearing the door behind him open and shut, a soft, deep 'woof' and a scurry of claws on wooden floors. He smiles, looking down at the juvenile Doberman that canters up to him and pulls to a halt at his side. He drops a hand, petting over her soft, smooth face, playfully tugging at one of her ears as she yawns and nips at his pajamas.

She presses up to him, as though trying to warm him up, and he smiles as another source of heat joins his other side. Hannibal, eclipsing the light of the setting sun as he cups Will's face and pulls him in for a greeting kiss.

"You were right," Will breathes when they part. Their exhales mist and curl together in the near-silent air, drifting down to join the gathering of clouds steaming from mortals as they make their way, going about their business. Their dog stands, going inside where the ground is a little warmer on her paws. She drapes herself across the doorjamb and settles with a huff, her eyes on them.

"I often am," Hannibal teases. His hand slides down Will's shoulder, curls around his back, coaxes Will to press close and share their warmth. Hannibal is much more suitably dressed, in the same fine clothes Will has always known him to wear, his coat open so that Will can burrow into it. The pressure of Hannibal against his shoulder makes him feel warm and settled, like a weighted blanket has been spread over his body.

Hannibal wraps himself around Will, coat, arms, and Will is sure he would pull out his wings and add their weight if they were in a place a little more private. His own feel like a curtain, fluttering inside his own body, restless and wanting to billow. To fly.

Hannibal kisses Will's red ear, nuzzles his hair. "About anything in particular, this time?"

"About coming here," Will answers, his eyes falling back down to the street. "They built this place with angels in mind." The buildings are free and made to accommodate them, here. There are no sprawling plantation houses, no grand mansions in the city, but there is also so much less steel, less unforgiving mortar and plaster. The buildings are old, well-fed on creatures that predate mankind.

Below them, Will's Hellhound trots amongst the people, her nose to the ground. She comes and goes, checking in on him as though just making sure he's still alive and content here. No more letters come to him from God. There's no need for such things when there are churches and cathedrals all around; why send a letter to Their son when Will can simply pay Them a visit whenever he wishes?

Hannibal hums in agreement, kissing Will's hair, his arms wrapped tight around him, chest to his back. He's so warm, but a pleasant warmth, not like the heat of Hell at all. Will likes it here; he likes being cold, with the gentle love of the angel of redemption keeping him company.

"I'm glad you like it here, darling," Hannibal murmurs to him. Will smiles and turns in his arms, eyes dropping to the ever-present glow of white light in Hannibal's chest. So pure, untouchable, brilliant; Hannibal's love for him.

Hannibal's smile is just as beautiful. He cups Will's face and kisses him, lips soft, warm, and he tastes like wine when Will parts his lips and licks behind his teeth. Will's shoulders tense, his chest constricting as he worms his hands beneath Hannibal's coat, cups his shoulder blades. Hannibal's scars take the form of two deep, angry knots between blade and spine, one on either side. His new wings sit lower, with a wider base, and Will feels the muscles on either side of him ripple in response to Will's touch. He used to hide them, from everyone, including Will, but these wings are the pure embodiment of his love for Will, and at his touch, Hannibal is helpless but to reveal them.

His eyes are dark, and he tilts his head, inviting Will back inside. Will goes, smiling, as the large windows close behind them, and Hannibal pulls the curtains closed to shield them from sight. Their apartment is small, no more than four rooms; a windowless living room, thickly lined with books; a dining room with a table large enough to accommodate four; their kitchen, cramped but perfectly arranged to allow many fine meals; and a bedroom.

Their dog rises, padding towards the dining room, and Will leads the way to the living room, his hand in Hannibal's. He takes Hannibal's coat and goes to hang it while Hannibal busies himself lighting a fire, and when he returns, Hannibal has lit a small, happy flame, the dark-colored furniture gleaming in the low light.

Will presses his lips together, and meets his eyes. "Show me?" he whispers.

Hannibal smiles at him, closes his eyes, and with a flutter and heavy sound of moving feathers, he unfurls his wings, showing Will their brilliant red color, the purple hue. They shine with his grace, and remind Will of the fresh color of organ meat.

Will's breath leaves him in a quiet gasp, watching with nothing short of awe as they shake out, hanging lowly. He goes to Hannibal, wrapping himself up in Hannibal's arms and sighing as his wings encase Will, warm and soft to the touch. They are thick, fluffed like that of a fledgling, but so wide and strong; they completely close off outside air from Will's bare skin, and he shivers, flushing with heat as the air between them grows humid and heavy.

Hannibal kisses him, passionate, long, and rubs his hands over Will's shoulders in encouragement. He releases his own wings with a heavy sigh, clenching his eyes tightly shut as he feels their familiar weight added to his own body. Hannibal's, which he gave to Will; grey-white like old limestone and marble, sharp-angled for swiftness. Their feathers mesh together like two liquids mixed, Hannibal petting over the first joints that jut from Will's old scars.

Their foreheads touch, and Will sighs against Hannibal's mouth, kissing him as Hannibal's fingers melt into his wings, his own drawing Will close.

It's been months since Hannibal bestowed such a gracious gift on him, since they fought and slayed the usurper with his stolen, monstrous wings and his terrible crimes, and still it feels like the first time all over again, joy and desire so fierce it feels like pain rising up in Will whenever Hannibal touches his wings.

He pushes at Hannibal's suit jacket, Hannibal releasing him just long enough to shed it. Their wings can move through clothes, but their mortal vessels cannot. Will's wings flare out as Hannibal, in answer, tugs on his t-shirt, lifting it over his head and letting it fall to the ground.

"Where did you go?" Will asks him, as Hannibal draws him close again, soft mouth coaxing flushes of blood to his neck as he kisses down Will's jaw, his throat. His wings wrap around Will, warm and so soft, Will feels like he's been encased in water. Hannibal, much to Will's delight, takes their dog out most of the time; he likes having the animal at his side, and she's impeccably trained and needs no leash. She's protective of Hannibal, in the same way Will's hound is protective of him.

"To a church," Hannibal replies. An answer such as that this time last year would have drawn a raised brow and a bitter laugh from Will. He's forgiven, as much as he is able to, the absence and punishment of his Father. God is a timeless kind of thing, and doesn't consider suffering of eons when they can pass as a blink. "I watched the faithful go to the cathedral for midday Mass."

Will smiles. "You didn't go in?"

"No," Hannibal replies. He nuzzles Will's shoulder, petting up his bare back. The heat of the fire soaks into Will's skin, warming his head, making his muscles go loose and lax. Will, for all his restless desire to wander, has found himself more of a homebody in this strange, old land. He prefers to stay inside now that the buildings are so much more welcoming to him. To both of them. He no longer suffocates under a roof.

"I was about to," Hannibal continues, coaxing Will towards the couch. Will sits, wings splaying out wide like a juvenile, and Hannibal crawls into his lap, settled heavy and warm with his wings fluttering and settling so that the second joints touch the innards of Will's, long feathers jutting out around their legs. Will undoes the buttons of his shirt, pushes the halves apart. "But then I saw a man, whose spirit interested me. I followed him for a time, until I was sure."

Will looks up, head tilted.

Hannibal cups his face, rests their foreheads together, sighs and nuzzles Will. He's always so tactile, now; there is hardly a moment where they are within the same space and not, in some way, touching. "I believe he's one of yours, my love."

"One of mine?" Will echoes.

Hannibal nods. "A man beyond redemption."

Will shivers, goose bumps breaking out down his bare arms as Hannibal flattens his hands on them, stroking down. His feathers ruffle in excitement, a tremor running down his spine. It's one of those things they don't talk about, these days. They were certainly in a hurry to leave America, but since then they have been pleasantly ignored. Jack and the American law have very little hope of finding them, except through divine intervention. The Italian lawmen have no quarrel with them, and if they did, Hannibal certainly has no qualms talking their way out.

But he hasn't been eating his chosen meat. The meat he often used to nourish Will at his table. The taste of sinners on Will's tongue is one he misses, despite everything else – they always had that subtle flavor of capsaicin, a spice of wrongdoing that lingered even after wine.

"Is that allowed?" he breathes, and even as he says it he feels the tempting warmth of _no, it's not._ It's not allowed, Will isn't meant to claim people before their time, merely take out the trash come Sunday night, but oh, it's tempting. Ironic, he thinks with a small laugh buried to Hannibal's throat, that the angel of redemption is the one to tempt him so.

Hannibal's answering laugh is warm, a rumble in his chest that Will feels against his cheek. He pushes his nose into the soft, thick hair on Hannibal's chest and breathes in, smells where the outside cold reached through all his layers. Hannibal's fingers spread wide through his hair, cupping the entirety of the back of his neck and the base of his skull, encouraging him to nuzzle, to nip.

Hannibal is a glutton for sensation, for pleasure, and even more ravenous for Will. Will cannot help responding to that hunger in kind.

"Does it matter?" Hannibal replies, and Will hums, blinks against Hannibal's collarbone and bites on the flesh his mouth can reach. Hannibal's wings flutter weakly in answer, sweeping low and with a quiet _rush_ of air, encasing Will in warmth and slick softness. "My only wish, Will, is to see you triumph. You emerged as a new creature when last we stood amidst blood." He leans down, nudges Will's forehead with his nose, drawing him away from his stubborn bite and brushing his lips along the bridge of Will's nose.

"Do you prefer me like that?" Will whispers, eyes closing as Hannibal continues to nuzzle him, seeking, an animal to his mate. Will's hands wrap around the small of his back and dip below the gap in his waistband, fingers finding skin so warm that for a moment he can think of nothing but ripping his teeth through it.

"I love you in all facets," Hannibal replies. The glow of white in his chest is impossible to argue with. " _Every_ facet."

Will's smile is more a show of teeth than anything else. He lifts his chin and catches Hannibal in a kiss, one hand leaving its mooring to rest upon his cheek, to dig the tips of his fingers behind the hinge of Hannibal's jaw and pull his head closer while his other hand coaxes the same from Hannibal's hips. They grind together like tectonic plates, and around them, their lived-in home groans in readiness.

"But you liked it, didn't you?" Will breathes, when the heat growls stifling and breathing Hannibal in feels the same as drinking him down. Hannibal's eyes are black and the grip of his fingers in Will's flesh is harsh. Will shoves Hannibal's shirt off him so he can claw at sweat-slick skin in answer. "My rage. My wrath."

"A certain inevitable, carnal beauty," Hannibal says. "Yes."

Will's lashes lower, he lets Hannibal nudge him back so his head rests on the couch, lets Hannibal's hands splay out wide and pet down his chest, humming in pleasure at every sensitive nerve Hannibal finds and lights up. These bodies, vessels of meat and bone, were so wonderfully made for touch. Will's skin has always held a particular warmth, you don't get to be the Devil without some stereotypes following you, but Hannibal is an angel, and angels are made of pure radiance. It would take sure a small flex of his will to smite Will in place.

It takes so little effort, for Will to ruin him in turn.

Hannibal shifts his weight, wings curling in to give himself leverage so that he can slide off of Will's lap. Will can see it clearly, Hannibal's intention; he was made, after all, to give worship on his knees. But Will's skin is too warm and every inch of him that isn't touching Hannibal screams with outrage, and the idea of those voices getting louder sets his teeth on edge.

"No," he murmurs, wrapping his arm around Hannibal's waist and hauling him close again. "No. Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere, Will," Hannibal replies. His voice, his eyes, are gentle, despite the heat in them. Will lifts his chin and cups Hannibal's jaw again, brings him in, forces his wings up high and wraps them greedily around his mate. He slides his hands across Hannibal's chest, then down, tugging at the button and zip of his suit pants. His hands are wet with sweat and wing oil and he grunts in annoyance when the zipper fights him, but he manages to get the halves split apart.

Hannibal tilts his head back with a pleased sigh, curling his fingers around where Will's wings meet his back, sliding in. When Hannibal cut his wings off and gave them to Will, the glands did not come with them. As a result, Will remains dry until purposefully touched, and Hannibal gets twice as wet.

The head of his cock is wet, a sharp new rush of scent accompanying his gentle sigh as Will takes him out and wraps his slick fingers around the head, tightening a finger in turn as he strokes down. Hannibal's knees spread out, his breath hitches, his wings flutter uselessly beneath the weight of Will's.

Hannibal's teeth find Will's warm ear and bite. "Harder," he commands, and Will growls and tightens his fist obediently.

Memories of red and rain paint the backs of Will's eyelids, every time he touches Hannibal like this he can't help thinking of the first time. On a windswept cliff with the ocean gnawing away below them, the promise of a dragon on the horizon. How beautiful Hannibal had looked, riding him, that glow of white and purple adoration sitting in his chest and burning so brightly Will was sure he would go blind.

He knew it in that moment, and he knows it now; there is nothing Hannibal would ask of him that he would not do. He would fly to the very depths of Hell to retrieve Samael's sword, he would journey up the vast winding slopes to Heaven and demand an audience with God. He would fight, kill, die, anything at all. The depth of his own devotion strikes him like the fangs of a snake; he chokes, swallowing his own saliva.

Hannibal kisses his pulse, shoves the knot of his wing joints under Will's arms. Pets his hair and says; "I know, darling."

Will whines, flattening his free hand low on Hannibal's back and bringing him forward, both of them grinding together as much as the couch will allow. Will's wings tighten, feathers rubbing slickly along the top ridges of Hannibal's, oil meshing them into thick clumps like mud in hair. Will's jaw clenches as he feels tiny pinpricks of stinging sensation; his feathers, plucking out where Hannibal's cannot be negotiated. The spines of Hannibal's shedding feathers piercing him in response.

Both of them, blurring together. Red and grey and fire-gold skin.

Will releases Hannibal's cock only long enough to free his own, wraps his fingers around both and groans as Hannibal takes over, hands planted on the back of the couch, either side of Will's head. Their foreheads meet, then their noses, then their mouths, Hannibal tilting left as Will does, lips parting so they can taste each other.

Will is panting, unable to take in air, and Hannibal is making a series of low, rumbling moans. His wings twitch beneath Will's – they are larger, and thicker, and more powerful, but they lie flat and submissive beneath Will's.

"I can't kill him," Will says, because even with Hannibal on his side he's not going to tempt God and fate like that. Hannibal's eyes flash. "But I want to watch you. I never got to, before."

Hannibal smiles, eyelids low and heavy. He presses a kiss to the corner of Will's mouth, winds wet fingers through his hair.

"Bringing justice for your sake would be like making a sacrifice to God," he murmurs. Will's breath hitches, a sudden spike of arousal rearing above the mid-level thrum. His stomach aches with how hard it tenses. "I cannot describe how much that would honor me, Will, to do that for you."

Will moans, bares his teeth and presses them to Hannibal's collarbone. There's a soft mottling of bruises there from nights past. Hannibal likes it when he bites, when he lays marks. Probably even more than Will likes doing it, impossible though that seems.

It's dangerous, what they're implying. Blasphemy. Will's mouth waters.

He can't take it anymore. He needs to be inside Hannibal, to pierce and mark him and claim him as the Devil's own. He unfurls his wings and spreads them wide, releasing Hannibal of their weight, and pushes him to his feet, but doesn't let him go far. He hauls Hannibal to him and turns them, shoving him to his knees on the couch, his chest pressed to the back of it.

He pulls Hannibal's clothes out of the way and slicks both his hands with Hannibal's copious amounts of oil, one hand flattening between his legs, the other wrapping around his own cock. With teeth at his mate's neck and wings splayed wide over him, pinning him down, Will mounts him just like that. Hannibal's small grunt of discomfort at the rushed stretch quickly melts into a loud moan as Will penetrates him, Will's hands wrapping above his wings and under his arms, fingers around opposite wrist locking to hold him still in an instinct as old as mortality.

He's tight and hot and slick and Will tastes blood in his mouth when he bites down, going still and buried deep, coming with a loud snarl and a triumphant arch of his wings. Hannibal trembles below him, for he must feel the power emanating from Will, eager to trap his radiance and swallow it down.

Will sighs, wings dropping heavily, and reaches down to wrap a hand around Hannibal's cock, stroking him smooth and tight and slow. He pulls his teeth back, licking over the mark he left.

He closes his eyes when Hannibal comes, and rakes his nails across Hannibal's chest, marking him there too as Hannibal spills over his fingers and the couch cushions. He keeps himself stubbornly inside, so he can feel every shiver and clench of his mate's body around him. Hannibal gasps, arching his wings against Will's, soaked with oil and sweat. He's decadent, he's divine.

"I will rename you, when it's done," he promises. "You are no longer Raguel."

Another powerful shiver runs down Hannibal's spine, and Will smiles, turns him, and kisses his flushed cheek.

Hannibal turns further, so their mouths can meet, and moans as Will pulls out of him, come and oil dripping down his thighs. His eyes are black in the low light, his smile gentle and, with an air of humor at their little inside joke, he says; "Thy will be done."

Outside, Will's Hellhound begins to howl, her hunt beginning.

 

 

They find this man and Will knows he was destined for Hell. He watches, silent and trembling, as Hannibal creates of him a tableau the rival of any religious iconography, any grand design. The beauty and terrible violence with which he cuts into the man, and mounts him in a mockery of Saint Peter, in the inverted Crucifixion, the arc of blood painted in savage lines across the floor and the walls, the screams of the man as he dies seem like ingredients to the most perfect meal.

Will shivers in the wake of it, when Hannibal wipes the back of his hand across his face, smearing blood, and goes to his knees in front of Will to offer him the man's heart.

Will takes it, the organ blackening to a crisp at his touch. He smiles, and brings it close to his chest.

"Rise, Hannibal," he says, in the same voice that the first Devil would have used when he called his angels to war. Hannibal obeys, and when Will touches his fingers to the soaked, purple-red feathers of his wings, the edges of them grow black and shimmer like obsidian.

Hannibal's eyes shine, the glow of his grace a beautiful sheen that makes him appear otherworldly. All mortals, even without seeing his wings, will look upon him and know that he is not of this world. They will see the agent of the Devil and they will be afraid, without knowing why. So too do the sheep know the presence of the wolf and the sheepdog both and only know the difference because of the shepherd.

Will goes to him, cups his face and kisses the blood from his mouth. Hannibal's wings push against his and spread ash upon his feathers. "Do you love me, Hannibal?" he murmurs, though he already knows the answer.

"With everything I am," Hannibal replies.

Will smiles, and absently wonders if God, in all Their wisdom and foresight, ever saw this future, where the Devil might tempt an angel to not only fall, but for that angel to take him in his arms and resurrect him. If, perhaps, this is the new Judgement Day. If God adapts, or will perish in the wake of their violent delights.

It would be a truly remarkable thing, to see God fall to Their own invention of survival of the fittest.

Hannibal takes the heart back from him, turns and places it back inside the man's opened chest cavity. It steams when in contact with his flesh, filling the air with the scent of acrid smoke and burning skin. Will smiles. It feels like coming home.

Hannibal turns back to him. A smell flex of will purges him of damning evidence, and Will's hands are clean when he reaches and takes Hannibal's in his own. He jerks his chin, gesturing back the way they came.

"Shall we?"

Hannibal's smile is wide, bright with affection, as he kisses Will's knuckles, and there is the sound of feathers ruffling in excitement. "After you."


End file.
